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COPYRIGHT DEPOSre 














BY 



lubu M, l«tt0 3f0tt?0 




Irnalimag Publtsljmj Qlnntpany 
B35 UrnaJima^, Ni^m fnrk. 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

DEC 14 1905 

Copyright Entry 
CLASS <K XXC. No. 






Copyright, 1903, 



EUBY M. BUTTS JONES. 



All Rights Reserved. 



/ 



To You, Dear Hbabt. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Dreams 1 

A Tale of the North-Land 4 

Luraline 33 

The Storm 71 

Love's Triumph 76 

Love Letters 77 

A Rhapsody 79 

The Dawn 80 

Rhododendron 81 

Kismet 83 

The Death of Love 84 

The Miser 85 

Love's Song of Rest 86 

A Spring Poem 87 

A Love Song 88 

To You 89 

An Idyl 90 

The Brook 91 

Three Roses 93 

Our Fate 95 

Do I Love You? .' 98 

My Beloved 99 

You Are Gone 100 

Life and Love 101 

The Parting of the Ways 103 

The Legend of Swansea Bay 105 

A Song of Life 114 

Drifting .s.-^. . . .r.-... . 118 



DREAMS. 



I sit to-niglit in my easy chair. 

And my thoughts go scurrying back. 
On the rockhewn path my feet had trod 

Not worn and beaten track. 
For from early childhood my feet would climb 

In the rough forbidden way, 
And never content in the path marked out 

Would my restless footsteps stay. 

In my dream to-night the sharp-edged stones 

Are covered with green grey moss. 
I've forgotten the thorns that pierced my feet, 

Forgotten the smart and loss. 
And in memory's dusky, hazy halls 

Of the beautiful long ago. 
The softening shadows gently fall 

And I but pleasure know. 

There's the green churchyard by the country road. 

Where mother lies asleep. 
And an angel form of carven stone 

A silent guardian keeps; 
The bitter sting of parting is gone. 

As I sit by those sculptured feet, 
And my heart feels only rest and peace 

As I think of her last sweet sleep. 



2 Dreams. 

Then here's the cottage brown and low 

On the quiet village street, 
Where yon whom I loved would come and go 

With joyous bounding feet. 
Where love was born, and where love was pledged 

And where love in anguish died. 
Where love is buried deep in my heart 

In memory's garden side. 
And there's the gate where we loved to lean 

In the evenings long ago. 
Where the apple blossoms above our heads 

Fell round us like showers of snow. 
Where we talked sweet nothing; 

The hours sped, at last you turned to go, 
For time would speed the hours by, 

Although I loved you so. 

And there's the steps where the woodbine climbs 

Over the quaint old door. 
Its grotesque shadows in the sun 

Falling across the floor. 
'Twas here we sat in the soft twilight 

In the beautiful long ago, 
And drank of the cup of love and life. 

While the lengthening shadows grow. 
There the selfsame porch where we said farewell. 

And our lips were wrenched apart, 
As you held me close to your throbbing heart 

And lingered loth to start. 
Where your lips sought mine in a long embrace. 

Where the last good-bye was said. 
Where I watched you tramping away through the 
night. 

And knew my heart was dead. 



Dreams. 

'Twas best for us both that we should part, 

Our love was too great to last. 
The hand of fate has written the words 

It must not be: — 'Tis past. 
But to-night I dream by the ruined gate 

And you, too, come again; 
Together we listen as in "Lang Syne" 

To ioTe's sweet, sad refrain. 

But other forms are hovering near, 

And memory's halls are long, 
And sorrow and laughter seem to blend 

Into one exquisite song. 
Thus I sit and dream of the long ago 

And the path my feet have trod. 
But the sting is taken out of my love 

By the blessed love of God. 



A Tale of the North-Land. 



A TALE OP THE NOETH-LAND. 

"Still stands the forest primeval, 

But under the shade of its branches, 

Dwells there another tribe, with other 

Customs and language. 

Only along the shores of the mournful and misty 

Atlantic 
Linger a few Arcadian peasants, whose fathers 

from exile 
Wandered back to their native land. 
To die in its bosom. 
In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom still 

are busy; 
Maidens still wear their Norman caps. 
And kirtles and homespun, 

And by the evening fires repeat Evangeline's story. 
While from the rocky caverns, the deep-voiced 

thundering ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate 
Answers the wail of the forest." 
Thus sang the bard, and ended the tale he'd been 

telling. 
The tale of Arcadian farmers, of Evangeline and 

her lover. 
And that story sweet through all time 
TJntil ended is time, shall awaken 
Pity, and love in the hearts of them 
That shall read it. 



A Tale of the North-Land. 5 

Pity, and love, in the heart of him that shall tell 

it; 
And for that sweet, sad tale, this world shall be 

made the better. 

Down by the same restless waters, whose waves 

sadly break in the evening, 
Where the fishermen's nets are spread to dry, came 

two lovers. 
Descendants they, of the friends of Evangeline, 

and their sires 
Oft recount as the evening falls, the tale we all 

know of those lovers. 
Theresa, the pride of the fishers, and Jacques, her 

sturdy admirer. 
Sweet and true was the tale of their love, which 

from childhood 
Had been growing apace, since they played in the 

sands of the seashore. 
Building wonderful houses, or dipping their feet 

in the ocean. 
Up to this very day when it had been formally 

settled. 
After the fishing season was over they would be 

happily married. 
Diligently at her loom Theresa wrought, and her 

labors 
Fruitful were, as the heap of snowy linen attested. 
Long through the busy day until Jacques would 

come in the evening; 
Then hushed was the busy wheel, and the nimble 

shuttle was silent. 
Down on the sands they would wander again to 

repeat the old story; 



6 A Tale of the North-Land. 

The story so old yet so new, and dear to the heart 

of the weaver; 
The story that thrills every heart, and with senses 

enraptured, delighted, 
Lips of the lover and loved, breathe: I love, oh, 

I love you most dearly. 

^ ^ H: ^ H: H: >is 

Across the black wave of St. Mary's bay. 

The rough wind is blowing. 

Loud laughed the boisterous waves, as they 

Thunder and break on the seashore. 

Low hangs the leaden sky, and the screaming 

Wheeling sea gulls 

Sport in boisterous play, dipping their 

Crests in the sea foam. 

Jacques with his boat is at sea; 

Theresa is on the beach waiting. 

For in her heart dwells a fear lest the deep-toned 
thundering ocean. 

Will claim as sacrifice the life of her gallant 
young lover. 

White are her lips and pale, her soul torn in doubt- 
ful suspension. 

Louder the bellowing waves thunder and break 
on the sea shore, 

'Twas here the courier-du-bois, the unscrupulous 
Pierre Langlois, 

Found her scanning the sea for the sail of Jacques' 
boat in the oflfing. 

Soft of speech was he, low-toned, softly sympa- 
thetic. 

"Fear not," he gently breathed, "the good saints 
Jacques attended. 



A Tale of the North-Land. 7 

And Jacques, the child of the sea, known and 

loved by each billow. 
Would safely ride the wave to the quiet, snug, 

safe harbor." 
Softly his accents fell on the troubled heart of 

the maiden, 
Eaised she her soft, dark eyes to the sombre heav- 
ens devoutly. 
Surely, the holy mother will bring him back in 

safety ; 
Lulled to rest were her fears by the soft-spoken 

words of the stranger. 
Then o'er the wave a sail, and straight through 

the bellowing billow. 
Masterfully Jacques his boat brought to the snug 

and sheltered harbor. 
Joined his sweetheart and friend, 
As they hastened down to greet him; 
Homeward turned with Theresa, Pierre discreetly 

withdrawing ; 
Sauntered back to the village with hands thrust 

deep in his pockets. 

Thus innocently began a romance to end in sor- 
row. 

Sorrow is all flesh heir to, but to some of us 
more than to others; 

Sorrow showeth a face, sometimes by pain all dis- 
tracted ; 

At other times calmly peaceful, as at last peace 
comes to the dying. 

Posing as friend of Jacques, Pierre with friendly 
devotion. 

Watched for his nearing sail, with 



8 A Tale of the North-Land. 

Theresa down by the ocean; 

Or on the sandy beach, fuU oftentimes he •would 

meet them, 
Pause to chat, then the three would leisurely 

saunter homeward. 
Thus passed the fairy spring, and summer came 

on in its splendor. 
Brightly blue was the sky and bright was the rip- 
pling water. 
Green were the fields, with grain growing fast, 

fast for the scythe of the reaper; 
Long were the days full of sunshine and short 

were the nights with their shadows. 
Then, with the time at hand for the matiag of 

Jacques and Theresa; 
When all the days and nights with love and ten- 
derness trembled. 
Word was brought o'er the waves that 
The father of Jacques lay dying 
Far in a southern harbor, whither he'd gone with 

his cargo 
Of fishes caught in the springtime, with which 

his boats were well laden. 
Jacques to Pierre left Theresa and hastened away 

to his father, 
Swift o'er the breast of the ocean, far from his 

native Arcadia — 
His good sail was furled soon ia the harbor of 

Boston, 
Where lay his father's boats on the breast of the 

rippling water. 
His father lived as yet, but the physician sadly, 

slowly 



A Tale of the North-Land. 9 

Shaking his grave, white head, left them alono 
together. 

Thus, for many a day watched Jacques by his fa- 
ther's bedside. 

Hoping 'gainst hope in the mom, at eve discon- 
solate, pondered. 

And when the night came down with its ghostly, 
grotesque shadows, 

Stopped his own breathing to catch the fitful 
breath of the sleeper. 

At last as the dawn crept in gray and still, e'er 
the sunrise. 

Closed he the eyes and slept the sleep that kaows 
no awakening. 

Mournfully, sadly the son followed the sire to 

the churchyard, 
When the good priest spoke words of cheer and 

of meeting in heaven. 
Besought repose for the soul of the humble and 

devout fisher. 
While Jacques, in agony kneeling, sobbed aloud 

as in childhood. 
Mournfully rattled the earth as the dust to dust 

was repeated. 
Jacques, now the last of his race. 
Arose with unsteady footstep. 
While the good priest half lead, half carried him 

to the harbor, 
Where lay his father's boats 
On the breast of the sparkling water. 
Blindly he staggered aboard, then the cadaverous 

fever 
Stretched forth its bony hands 



lo A Tale of the North-Land. 

And grasped him firm in its clutches. 

Then came the sweet Aleica, Sister of Charity, 

meekly 
Sat by his bed through the night as he tossed in 

the clutch of the fever. 
Sweetly, calm as a summer night, holy and purely 

reposeful. 
Hushed she his mad, wild raving. 
With her cool, soft hand on his forehead. 
Thus four terrible weeks tenderly, patiently 

nursed him. 
Until the fever was spent and Reason returned 

with her sceptre. 
Until the morn met the sun with a cool, sweet 

kiss in his rising. 
Then back to this world came Jacques from out 

of the valley of suffering. 
On the day he should have wed Theresa, 
Jacques lay convalescing slowly. 
Feeble his hold on life, but the fever was spent 

in its fury. 
While in their native Arcadia Theresa awaits her 

lover. 
Her heart full of grief and foreboding, for 
This day should have been her bridal. 
Over the ocean wave to the mouth of the Gas- 

parian river. 
Anchored a ship one day north bound from the 

city of Boston. 
Idly the wind flapped her sails and softly the rip- 
pling water 
Slapped at her sides in their play, e'er they broke 

at last on the sand dunes. 



A Tale of the North-Land. ii 

Pierre Langlois, the du-Bois, at full length lazily 
lying, 

Watched througli half-closed eyes the ship as she 
came to anchor, 

Saw her about to leave, then in his flat-bottomed 
dory 

Pulled to her side to ask for news of Jacques or 
his father. 

They who had sailed away from this shore into si- 
lence, unbroken 

By news to the friends who waited, to tell if liv- 
ing or dying. 

Answered Captain Grey, a stern and invincible 
Yankee, 

Warped by the weight of the years he had 
ploughed the breast of the waters. 

Stem and terse of speech, but with heart both 
. true and tender, — 

Every ready to lend a hand to help a brother af- 
flicted ; 

Yet stern and harsh of mein as he addressed Lan- 
glois : 

These two men have I known, father and son, 
named Leblanc, 

As with the tide I'm away, say to their friends 
if you meet them, 

Peter Leblanc is dead and Jacques is undoubtedly 
dying. 

Long on the lonely shore Pierre Langlois stood 

watching. 
Until the day was spent and the dark-gemmed 

night with her shadows 



12 A Tale of the North-Land. 

Folded the land and sea in her dusky star-bright 

splendor. 
Watching if any came to seek of news from the 

stranger ; 
But the fishermen were away with 
Their nets and boats on the ocean. 
And none but the fisher-folk sought for news 

from the missing fishers. 
When, at last, the fleet, with the catch of the night 

well laden. 
Homeward turned, the ship was off and away to 

the northward. 
Shook she her white, shining sails to the breath 

of the fresh, stirring breezes. 
Far from the shores of Arcadia, and the du-Bois 

alone knew the story. 
As the fishermen spread their nets to dry, sorted 

and counted the fishes, 
Langlois, the du-Bois, related a tale that filled 

them with anger. 
His dark face clouded and sombre, his voice full 

of unuttered sadness. 
Spoke of the ship that had come, and gone away 

in their absence; 
How he had inquired for news of Peter and 

Jacques Leblanc. 
None knew of them save the captain, who knew 

old Peter and loved him. 
Peter Leblanc was dead; dead and buried in 

Boston, 
But Jacques, the fickle, had found maidens most 

fair in the southland. 
One for whom he'd forsook Arcadia's loveliest 

flower. 



A Tale of the North-Land. 13 

Jacques, tlie free lover, had wedded a maid of the 

city of Boston. 
Sad and low his tones as he mentioned the lovely 

Theresa, 
Who would break the news to Arcadians loveliest 

daughter ? 
They all agreed that Pierre, as friend of both, was 

the fittest, 
For he was ready of speech and glib and smooth 

in his speaking. 
But, be thou gentle and kind, admonished the 

kind-hearted fishers. 
Then rose he up, and went where Theresa wove 

in the sunlight. 
Eound and round went the wheel, the deft, brown 

fingers plying 
Shuttle and warp and woof to slow, dull, droun- 

ing melody; 
Heavy the clear, brown eyes and flushed were her 

cheeks with much weeping. 
Ever anon she listened for a quick, firm step on 

the gravel. 
And to the drouning wheel whispered: 
"He's long in coming." 
She heard not the cat-like step of Pierre Langlois, 

the traitor. 
As it fell on the pebbly gravel, then his shadow 

darkened the sunlight. 
Then his soft accents in greeting fell on her weary 

senses. 
But straight from her loom uprising, 
The maiden turned with a welcome, 
Such as she should extend to the friend of her 

absent betrothed. 



14 A Tale of the North-Land. 

Spoke of the day, of its beauty, of the fisher- 
folks' trifling gossip. 

Then with keen discernment, on his face noting 
the shadow. 

For mournful indeed was his air. 

As one that brings news of the dying, — 

She questioned the cause of his grief. 

Then alarmed at his hesitating — 

Demanded if news from Jacques, 

That straightway he should tell her. 

White was her face and her breath came short 
and hard and labored. 

While her slight figure shook as an 

Aspen stirred by the breezes. 

Pierre, in his her hands taking, 

His voice full of heart-breaking sorrow, 

Gently drew her do^vn on a seat 'neath a grape- 
covered arbor. 

There, with many a pause (his afiectation of 
sorrow dramatic), 

To the trusting, truthful girl he related the self- 
same story; 

The self-same, lying tale he'd invented for the 
fishers. 

Pitilessly through to the end, Theresa crushed, and 
silent. 

Like a sweet lily whose petals are crushed by the 
storm in its fury. 

More fragrant by far, when crushed by 

The mad, wild, blundering passion 

Of the man who sat by her side and lied to the 
maiden who trusted. 

Silent and stunned she sat, her face telling out 
the keen anguish 



A Tale of the North-Land. 15 

That in her heart smote deep, though her lips 

uttered not their reproaches. 
Pierre knew the keen distress, but. his soft-spoken 

words of pity 
Fell on deaf ears, for Theresa knew only her deep 

desolation. 
Thus passed a week as a day, a week when she 

brooded in silence — 
A week black as night, when she sat looking out 

with deep eyes o'er the ocean, 
Spoke not one word of blame, Pierre was awed 

into silence, 
While the good fish-wives whispered tales of folk- 
lore half forgotten. 
Faithfully each day the du-Bois came and beside 

her 
Sadly mute or speaking in soft-toned words of 

pity, 

Or roundly berated poor Jacques, but she neither 

heeded nor listened. 
But sadly over the sea her wide eyes gazed full 

of yearning. 
Then came a notable change at the end of a week 

of silence. 
Silence, unbroken and deep, filled with heart- 
break and anguish, 
When a reaction had come and the gentle heart 

of Theresa 
Laughed in its pride, and anger and despair, took 

the place of sorrow. 
Why? asked she, of the face that looked white 

and drawn from the mirror. 
Should all our days be spent sadly and foolishly 

grieving, 



1 6 A Tale of the North-Land. 

For one who lightly throws the bond of both love 

and honor 
Into the mighty Atlantic, 
And straightway makes love to another? 
Thus she put by her romance with bitter laugh, 

and her kertle, 
^ Woven by her own hands and resplendant with 

beautiful colors, 
Donned she, and heaped her hair in its most be- 
coming manner. 
Watched for the coming of Pierre and gaily went 

forth to meet him. 
Blithely and glibly she talked of all save her 

own great sorrow, 
Echoed her muteless laugh at the tales the du- 

Bois told her. 
Walked the familiar walks, where lately with 

Jacques, her lover, 
She had planned a life of love and bright, rose- 

hued air-castles. 
To-night her bright hopes dead, and pride her 

only supporter. 
Desperate at the insult offered her pure, young 

girlhood. 
E'er the clock struck nine, she had given ear to 

the pleading 
Of Pierre Langlois, the traitor, had promised 

to try to love him. 
Gently tho du-Bois pleaded ; he, of persuasion, th^ 

master. 
Far from Arcadia's shores speedily would they 

journey ; 
Find a quiet retreat and there in that earthly 

eden. 



A Tale of the North-Land. 17 

Their lives would tranquilly flow 

As one deep and quiet river. 

Ah ! had he not loved long ? had he not been mute 

and passive? 
Had he not longed for one word? but honor had 

bade him be silent. 
And she, poor girl, half mad with pain at her 

heartless desertion, 
Eefused, then listened, hesitated, and at last, gave 

consent to his wooing. 



Thus when the day was gone and night, soft-hued 

and tender. 
Fell o'er the weary earth, on swift and fleet-footed 

chargers. 
They were ofl and away and soon were quietly 

married : 
Then were lost in the haze of events that have 

been, and the fishers 
Shaking their wise, old heads, forgot for the time 

to wonder. 
Soon thereafter came Jacques from the fever and 

weakness recovering, 
Came to his own Theresa, his bonny, sweet bride 

who was waiting. 
But instead of Theresa, he found deepest desola- 
tion and sorrow, — 
The bride from her home had flown. 
And trembling and weeping, the mother 
To Jacques gave bitter upbraiding 



1 8 A Tale of the North-Land. 

When he appeared in the doorway, 

Saying, "You come at last, and where is your bride 

from the southland?" 
Had the good woman gone mad? Dazed and 

speechless, he wondered. 
Weak from his recent illness, trembling and white 

in the doorway. 
"Where is Theresa?" he cried. "Gone!" was the 

hard, angry answer. 
"Gone with Pierre Langlois, your erstwhile friend 

and adviser." 
Weak and sick he reeled 
As a man with much wine drunken, 
Would have doubtless fallen, but Gaspard, the 

father, uprising. 
Around the form of the boy his strong arm firm 

compelling, 
Drew to the deep, broad settle, Jacques, the out- 
lawed, deserted. 
Then in gruff, kindly tones related the whole base 

story. 
While Jacques on the settle leaned, his young 

head bowed despondent. 
Stunned and dazed he sat even as had sat Theresa ; 
White was his face and drawn as one whose best 

idol is taken. 
And in that hour were bom despair and heart- 
broken sorrow. 
Never again to leave him throughout the long 

years before him. 
But above despair arose a hate consuming, 
A hate that boded ill for Pierre Langlois, the 

traitor. 



A Tale of the North-Land. 19 

Then Jacques Leblanc turned his face from his 

native Arcadia, 
Plunged in the trackless waste of unknown prime- 
val forest, 
Built his lodge by a stream close to the desolate 

barrens ; 
Became a guide and hunter far from all who had 

known him. 
There he strove to forget that of which there was 

no forgetting, 
Strove to banish the face of her he had loved 

well and truly, 
But when the night came down, bleak and black 

in the forest. 
Sleepless he tossed on his balsam boughs or 

through the pathless mazes 
Of the dark forest tramped, he unmindful of 

darkness or danger, 
Yet successful was he, though never was his the 

wooing. 
None could call like he the lordly moose to battle, 
On his seducive birch bark horn, cleverly imitating 

the challenge. King bull hurls at King 

bull. 
As he fights for his realm in the forest ; 
None knew the runs of the deer half so well by 

the river, 
Nor the den of the wily lynx in his rocky home 

on the hillside. 
The haunts of the ferocious bear, the wily fox and 

the beaver. 
High was the heap of furs that told success to his 

labors — 



20 A Tale of the North-Land. 

Empty his heart and sad; 'twas to 'forget he la- 
bored. 

But forgetting was not for Mm, nor his cup of 
bitterness empty. 

'Twas just a year to a day since he entered the 

shade of the forest. 
And his heart is sad with a longing, not to be 

easily silenced, 
Just once more to walk the shores, where he and 

Theresa 
Walked of old and planned their future life to- 
gether. 
Just for one last, long look on the dimpling, 

dancing water; 
Just once more to sit on the bench 'neath the 

grape-covered arbor. 
Then he would gladly return to his lodge in the 

depths of the forest. 
Put he the thought away with resolute hand, but 

returning, 
Stretching his shadowy hands, softly, persistently 

pleaded. 
Until at last he was off to the home of his love and 

his childhood. 

Thus when the evening shadows deepened over the 
ocean. 

Sad and lonely a man sat in the arbor of grape 
vines, 

Glajzing out at the sea as had sat and gazed 
Theresa, 

Seeing naught, heeding naught, only his deep des- 
olation. 



A Tale of the North-Land. 21 

Then dreams of happier days, like soft-winged 

doves, came stealing 
Over his troubled heart; again, all free from sor- 
row 
Lived he the past, so full of peace and love and 

devotion : 
Forgot the passage of time nor noted the day 

declining, 
Nor that on soft, shadowy wings, the night in its 

star- jeweled splendor. 
Hushed both the earth and-sea to sleep on her soft 

dusky bosom. 
Far in the land of his dreams down its shadowy 

aisles dim lighted. 
Perceived not a form draw near, 
N"or a step slow, soft, hesitating. 
As if compelled from the past by the sweet, old 

love, Theresa, 
Out of the darkening night, paused sad and si- 
lent before him. 
Still 'neath the spell of his dream, 
Jacques beheld as a vision, 
Theresa, the dream of his boyhood, and pride and 

joy of his manhood, 
Daring not to touch, not even to speak, lest at 

speaking, 
The blessed vision should vanish and leave him 

again sad and lonely. 
Wet was the glorious hair with the damp night 

dew fast falling, 
Worn and shabby her dress, footsore, weary, iDr- 

saken. 
Like some weary pilgrim spent with the toil of 

his long, weary journey; 



22 A Tale of the North-Land. 

Gone was the bloom of healtli from her thin^ pale 
cheek — from its pallor 

Shone out the splendid eyes, bright and sad in 
their yearning. 

Choked was her voice with tears as "Jacques, dear 
Jacques," she faltered, 

^'Forgive, oh, forgive the wrong I did you ever 
by doubting 

You or your manly love. — Oh, Jacques ! say that 
you forgive me." 

The white, thin hands outstretched to him in in- 
finite yearning, 

As she whispered "Forgive !" and fell iu a 
crushed, limp heap on his bosom. 

In his strong arms he caught her, forgetting the 
shackles that bound her ; 

Called her endearing names, kissed the white lips 
mute and senseless. 

Forgetting all, save that his loved Theresa lay on 
his bosom. 

Then as she answered not to words of dearest devo- 
tion. 

Silently, as in death, her^ white face lay on his 
shoulder. 

Terror, lest she be dead, caused him to shrink and 
shudder. 

In his strong arms he bore her, tenderly, back 
to her mother. 

In the little white bed where Theresa had slept 
in innocent childhood 

Laid he his precious burden, and through the long 
night of sorrow. 

Paced he the sandy beach, his heart full of bit- 
terest cursing, 



A Tale of the North-Land. 23 

And as the dawn crept in, a child was born, and 

its mother. 
When tliey said: "He is dead," murmured, 
"I thank Thee, my Fattier.'"' 

'Twas eve, and the hour of the tryst once kept 

by Jacques and Theresa, 
The darkly, lumininous eyes loked wide and black 

from the pillows. 
Called she the name of Jacques in accents low and 

tender. 
And reverently stealing in, he came and kcelt by 

her bedside. 
Knelt as a pilgrim kneels at the shrine of a saint, 

faint and weary. 
Not lifting his eyes to her face, but kissing the 

white hand extended. 
That poor little hand so thin, lost both was its 

brown and the dimples; 
Weeping as weeps a mother over her suffering 

children. 
"Jacques !" Theresa's voice is low and faint, yet 

tender ; 
"Say you forgive me, my own, for the terrible 

wrong I did you. 
Believe me, I did not know — " the sweet, low 

voice, full of anguish, 
Breaks in stifled sobs, and poor Jacques brokenly 

answers 
That he has naught to forgive; she was sinned 

against more than sinning. 
Then as they calmer grew, Jacques drew his chair 

to her bedside. 



24 A Tale of the North-Land. 

Stioked back the dusky tresses, wMle Theresa 

told of her wanderings 
Since she had fled with Pierre that ill-starred 

night;, and was married. 
How np and down they had roamed, for fearful 

the du-Bois ever, 
Lest Jacques, living, returned, to wreak swift, ter- 
rible vengeance. 
How she had learned of the truth, from his 

drunken, braggant boastings. 
How she reproached him when sober, then in 

hot anger he'd struck her. 
Left her for dead on the floor, far from her friends 

and Arcadia. 
Thence many miles she had traveled footsore and 

hungry and weary, 
Many and painful the pauses to rest, for extreme 

was her weakness; 
Many a time poor Jacques begged her refrain the 

recital. 
Sadly she smiled and again took up the thread of 

her story, 
*Tor e'er the morning," said she, "perchance your 

weary Theresa 
Shall have done with this life, with its care, and 

the world, with its sorrow; 
Perchance the angel of peace will carry her safe on 

his bosom. 
To the great realms of light, where the dear sweet 

mother of Jesus 
Will intercede for her rest, and no more in sorrow, 

and anguish. 
Shall I travel below." — But Jacques, with tears 

fast falling, begged, 



A Tale of the North-Land. 25 

That she live for his sake; — but the dark eyes, 

great and tender, 
Gazed full of love and pity on the sorrowing man 

before her. 
Thus the night sped on; her hand clasped in his 

till the morning 
Broke in the eastern sky, and the dawn crept in 

grey and ashy. 
Softly again did she speak, and Jacques leaning 

tenderly o'er her. 
Heard her whisper his name, and promise to meet 

him in heaven. 
Down on his knees he sank, praying of God to 

spare her; 
Beseeching her to live; — but Theresa, in tender 

compassion, 
Placed on his dark, bowed head her thin, white 

hand, as in blessing. 
Wide were the luminous eyes with pain at the 

meeting and parting. 
White was the weary face, framed in the soft, 

dusky splendor 
Of her long hair, uncon£ned, that lay in its glory- 
around her. 
Plainly the angel of death had set his seal in her 

forehead. 
Then "Jacques, my beloved," she breathed, and the 

dark eyes closed forever. 

The Sabbath was perfect, and cloudless, when all 

that was mortal 
Of Theresa Langlois was laid to rest in the 

churchyard of Grand Pr6. 



26 A Tale of the North-Land. 

Long tolled the village bell, and the fisher-folk, 
full of sorrow. 

Stood by the grave, and wept for the fairest flower 
of Arcadia. 

^Twas then the search began, the search that knew 
no ending 

Until the day when the life of Langlois, the trai- 
tor. 

Paid in full for his treachery, for Jacques, with 
mad hate burning. 

Gave up his life to the task of hunting a human 
quarry; 

North and South he searched, up and onward ever. 

East and West, the same, followed the faintest 
rumor; 

But more subtle by far than the cunning beasts 
of the forest. 

The du-Bois eluded his grasp, though close pur- 
sued, had ever 

Bore a charmed existence; but his foe, though 
oft disheartened, 

Never relinquished his purpose, yet up and onward 
ever, 

Through all the long and weary years he remained 
stern and relentless. 

'Twas a cold, grey, autumn day, again in the 
northern forest; 

Jacques, the hunter, once more called the bulls to 
the battle. 

White was his hair with the frosts of thirty suc- 
cessive winters. 

Grim of visage, and stern with long-felt hate in- 
dwelling;. 



A Tale of the North-Land. 27 

Keen and bright was his eye, his strong arm firm 

and steady. 
Famous throughout the north as a guide and hun- 
ter and trapper. 
Rich was he, for fortune had come, unwelcome, un- 
heeded. 
Sad was he, for his heart lay deep in the grave 

with Theresa. 
Low sank the setting sun over a desolate barren. 
Dusky and damp was the marsh, and stunted the 

bushes and hard hack. 
Off to the eastward there gleamed 
A lake, in the rank, growing rushes. 
Like molten silver poured, in the heart of the 

darkening morass. 
Toward this lake tramped Jacques, to a rack that 

rose on the barren. 
Like some grotesque sentinel, or grim old gothie 

castle. 
In a niche, half up, concealed from his birch-bark 

horn, a challenge 
Eang, defiant, triumphant, echoing back through 

the forest. 
Again, the call of the moose, and far away on the 

water. 
Faint at first, and distant, but nearer it comes, and 

nearer. 
Again, he plys his horn, then loud and clear, and 

defiant. 
Flung is the challenge back, and a pair of lordly 

antlers 
Appear on the breast of the lake, and charging 

straight to the battle. 



28 A Tale of the North-Land. 

A bull moose, fully grown, who holds his realm 

■unshaken. 
Angry the beat of his hoofs, with rage his antlers 

he's shaking. 
Bright is his flashing eye, magnificent is his bear- 
ing; 
On comes the kingly moose, bellowing again the 

challenge. 
Jacques, from his cleft in the rock, shoots him 

straight through the forehead. 
Blindly he staggers, and falls to his knees, still 

repeating the challenge. 
Struggles, tries to rise, but true was the aim of the 

hunter. 
Trembles his failing limbs, one last despairing 

struggle. 
Then stretched on the barren, dead, is the king 

of the northern forest! 
Jacques, from his cleft in the rock, is in the act of 

descending. 
Eeloaded, his trusty rifle, is carelessly flung o'er 

his shoulder. 
When from the rushes a cry of mortal terror and 

horror. 
Accompanied by a shot, then a gj-owl of rage and 

fury. 
Silently as an Indian the hunter crept through the 

bushes. 
Softly his moccasined feet fell on the moss of the 

morass. 
Man and brute — at bay — faced each other before 

him. 
In brief ominous silence towered an enormous 

grizzly, 



A Tale of the North-Land. 29 

Over a shrinking man, whose only weapon remain- 
ing 

Was a keen-edged hunting knife; 

His rifle lay useless beside him. 

Parting the obstructing bushes, Jacques brings his 
trusty rifle 

To bear on the angry brute; instinctively toward 
him 

Look both man and beast, afar recognizing in com- 
mon, 

Pierre Langiois, the du-Bois, is facing Leblanc, 
the hunter. 

Sharply the rifle rang out, the brute pitched heav- 
ily forward. 

Bearing the du-Bois down under his huge dead 
carcass. 

Stunned and dazed by the fall, and the weight of 
the beast upon him, 

Slowly, at length he crawled, in abject terror, and 
trembling. 

Pitiably, to the feet of the man whose life he had 
blighted. 

Brave was the courier du-Bois, when out with his 
boon companions. 

Loud was his laugh, and his boasts of hand-to-hand 
encounters 

Many were ; and his life, in his hand he held most 
lightly. 

But, as he faced sure death, at the hand of the 
outraged hunter. 

Gone all his bravado; pitiably pleading and trem- 
bling. 

At the feet of the man who gaaed, with unutterable 
scorn and lothing 



30 A Tale of the North-Land. 

At the dissolute, broken wretch, who begged for his 
life, before him. 

Twice to his shoulder he pressed his rifle, and 
fingered the trigger. 

Twice again did he lower the point of the death- 
dealing weapon. 

Yet his heart relented not in hate and awful loth- 

ing, 

Bade him to rise, and fight for his life with the 
deadly bowie. 

From its sheath he drew the slender and keen- 
edged weapon. 

Bade Pierre recover his knife that lay by the side 
of the grizzly. 

But he only babbled, and stared, and shook as an 
asp in the breezes. 

His bravado wholly gone, his abject terror most 
pitiful. 

Then a luminous, hazy light seemed to envelop 
and blind them. 

In the center of which appeared the ghostly form 
of a woman. 

White and clinging her robes, but the long dead 
face of Theresa 

Looked from the luminous cloud. 

Her deep eyes full of sadness; 

Awed, the intrepid Jacques knelt on the moss be- 
fore her. 

Pierre gave a howl of terror and buried his face 
in the hard hack; 

Then a silvery voice fell soft and clear on the mo- 
rass. 

Like some sweet silvery bell, calling the wanderer 
to vespers. 



A Tale of the North-Land. 31 

"For the sake of the love that I in life and death 
have borne you, 

Forgive the sin of this man, and leave to Our Fa- 
ther the vengeance/^ 

Softly the dark eyes beamed, with infinite love 
and pity, 

On the kneeling form of the hunter, whose life had 
the other blighted. 

Stretched he his hungry arms to the beautiful, 
blessed vision. 

While in his heart the hate for the du-Bois was 
wholly forgotten. 

Slowly the vision passed and faded into the twi- 
light. 

Leaving only a luminous haze, where she had 
melted and vanished. 

Slowly, at last, to his feet, aged and infirm, arose 
the hunter. 

Stumbled over the corpse of Pierre Langlois, the 
traitor. 



Back to the forest primeval, the murmuring pines 

and the hemlock, 
Jacques Leblanc, the hunter, came to die in its 

bosom. 
Hate had flown from his heart, and the gentle love 

of the Savior 
Dwelt in its place, and peace and humility were 

his sisters. 
Shattered and spent his strength, but at last by 

the side of Theresa 
Slept he the last long sleep, the sleep that knows 

no awakening. 



32 A Tale of the North-Land. 

Green is the grass to-day over the graves of the 
lovers, 

Blue is the sky, and blithely sing the gay birds in 
the branches, 

"Peace and rest to their souls," murmur the de- 
vout fishers, 

"Best thou in peace, Jacques, after thy life's 
stormy journey." 



Lurallnc. 33 



LUEALINE. 

My friends, your indulgence I crave for a space; 
A story I'll relate, a wild romance trace; 
Lend to me your imaginative power and come 
On the wings of your fancy to my early home. 
Eor a while let me lead you away to the mountains. 
Away from your parks and your sparkling foun- 
tains ; 
Away from your boulevards and smooth level 

drives. 
To wild mountain country, where wild hemlock 

thrives ; 
Where the pine and the maple, the oak and the 

beech, 
Toss high their long arms, far removed from your 

reach ; 
To the wilds of Penn's woodland, deep, wooded 

and drear; 
To the house and the home of brave Eobert 

Eevere. 
Back ! back ! scroll of time, unroll the long years. 
Eoll back through the ages of sunshine and tears. 
That come to all lives ; aye, the bitter and sweet. 
In each individual some time must meet. 
Aye, back to the days when the strong pioneer. 
Through the trackless woodland blazed a path, 

broad and clear. 



34 Luraline. 

Bold. Iloberfc Tievere from the land of his birth. 
An exile had roamed on the face of the earth. 
Banished from his home by a tyrant severe, 
Sought a home for his wife and his little child, 

here. 
In this wilderness, removed from the haunts of 

white men. 
With a heart free, courageous, undaunted, as 

when 
He espoused the cause of the Quakers, and dared 
The wrath of his monarch, his exile was shared 
By his wife and his baby, two servants, their 

boy, 
A bright, winsome lad, and their hearts' pride and 

joy- 
By incessant labor the low-lying plain 
Was cleared of the woods, and abundance of grain 
Soon ripened each harvest, and the yellow maize. 
Its broad leaves uplifted, through bright summer 

days. 
When the harvest was over, and winter came down. 
No want was felt here where wild game abound. 
So hunter and trapper, and farmer, beside. 
They lived ; well content evermore to abide. 
In the new home provided by Providence — clear; 
The same that ever had followed Eevere. 

Thus swift years went by, and the children had 

grown. 
Strong of limb, tall of stature, and childhood had 

flown. 
The old folk grown grey with the labor of years. 



Luraline. 35 

Now hoped for a -unioii 'twixt the descendant of 

peers/ 
And the child of a servant ; it had not been so. 
In the years long gone by, in their own home, I 

know. 
But Eichard was upright, of stature and mind. 
In peers of the realm no such physiques you find. 
And Lura — can pen of a mortal e'er trace 
Perfection so rare, both of form and of face. 

One night, 'twas the beginning of bright, halcyon 

days. 
The beautiful blue, Indian summer; the maize 
Had been gathered; the harvest was plenty; 
The barns full to bursting; no storehouse was 

empty. 
The settlers, well satisfied, congratulated each 

other. 
Glad the arduous toil of the harvest was over; 
Sat smoking their pipes, and enjoying their ease, 
'Neath the whispering boughs of the evergreen 

trees. 
Saw, slowly ascending the rough mountain-side, 
A white man, accompanied by an Indian guide. 

As the settlers await the approach of their guest, 
Let us look at him closely, and guess at his quest. 
A man maybe thirty; yes, thirty and four. 
Married early in life to a woman who bore 
No proud name or title, but gold, sovereigns in 

lieu 
Of beauty and truth, and a heart warm and true. 
It was not a love match, but 'tis often the same ; 
He needed the money, she wanted his name. 



36 Lurallnc. 

So they were wed, and for some little while 

It seemed that the gods on their mating would 

smile, 
But the newness wore off, and unsuited was ea<3h 
To the other ; they drifted far away from the reach 
Of a friendly affection, which else might have 

sprung ; 
He became short of temper, and she long of 

tongue. 

In anger and disgust, and sore wounded pride. 
He deserted his ancestral home for this side 
Of the stormy Atlantic; began a new life. 
Far away from the country wherein dwelt his wife. 
Far too proud to drag through the courts his fair 

name. 
Would travel abroad; to the colonies came. 

Thus we find him to-night, toiling up the "dug 

way,"* 
In the fast failing light of the bright Autumn 

day. 
To the home of the settlers he is drawing near, 
And rising to greet him is Eobert Eevere. 
"Most welcome to my household, ah, stranger who 

roams. 
Far from your white kindred, and far from your 

home." 
Revere is extending his hand to his guest 
Without asking his name, or enquiring his quest. 
" 'Tis not oft we look on white faces, save those of 

each other, 

* Term for a road cut in the side of the mountain. 



Lurallne. 37 

I welcome you here as I'd welcome a brother. 
So, therefore, whatever your business be here. 
If honest, you're welcomed by Eobert Revere." 

The stranger bowed low, while fine courtly grace 
Lighted up his bronzed features, transfigured his 

face. 
"I craved but your shelter for one chilly night 

here; 
Little guessing my host would be Eobert Eevere. 
I have oft heard my father extolling your worth, 
The best man he would say on the face of the earth. 
You'll remember my father. Sir Edward Elmere. 
I am his son, Donald ; to me it seems queer. 
That hungry and weary and tired and lost. 
So near to have found such a genial host.'' 

"You are then doubly welcome," cried Robert Re- 
vere, 

"To our heart and our homes and all we hold 
dear; 

My boyhood's best friend in your father I found. 

And are you like him? then the very ground you 
walk on is made doubly honest through you. 

Say you not so, my neighbor ? You, too, knew he 
was true. 

To the best and the truest and manliest part. 

Both mighty of stature and upright of heart. 

i 

"This neighbor of mine, and co-worker, Tom 
Brown, 

Also knew him, and welcomes you here on that 
ground. 

You're his son. Tom, Sir Donald, embrace. 



3 8 Luraline. 

This the honorable son of an honorable race. 
Here's Eichard, Tom's son, just returned from the 

chase ; 
He'll be glad for a look at a white stranger face. 
This, Lura, my daughter, and Eachel, my wife, 
The light and sweet joy of my fast waning life: 
My sweet guardian angels; 
And here's Mrs. Brown, 
All flushed with her baking, so let us sit down 
To supper ; prepared in our kitchen for all. 
And ask that God's grace on these viands may 

fall." 

To that hospitable board in that quaint kitchen 

spread. 
They quickly repair, Eevere at the head 
Of the table : his guest on his right ; 
The others, promiscuously grouped; 'twas a sight 
To inspire a beholder : two families, their guest. 
This bright Autumn evening, and none could have 

guessed 
The events soon to follow, the trials so near. 
To the hearts and the homes of both Brown and 

Eevere. 

A week has passed by and Sir Donald delayed 
His adieu to say to Eevere ; and he stayed, 
A guest doubly welcomed ; in this lonely wild 
A white face is welcome, and is he the child 
Of your boyhood's companion, your young man- 
hood days, 
You earnestly solicit; he willingly stays. 
'Twas thus with Sir Donald, and thus with Ee- 
vere. 
For a season he promised to make his home here. 



Luraline. 



39 



Were you ever, by fortune, permitted to gaze. 
On a beautiful primeval landscape, in days 
When the frost king, and sun god in scarlet and 

gold. 
Had painted the landscape, with brush bright and 

bold? 
If not, you have missed what no canvas produces 
The color is inadequate, the brushes are useless. 
The topaz and turquoise of the vaulted skies 
With the brilliantly painted mountain-side vies 
To outrival each other, but, failing, they blend 
In one beautiful picture, one glorious end. 

A magnificent landscape, and a sweet, lovely face, 
A figure of perfect symmetrical grace. 
A picturesque dress, bright curls, unconfined. 
In luxuriant brightness, flows back on the wind, 
'Tis Lura Revere, blithsome, happy and free. 
Child of nature, like nature, most lovely to see. 

So thought Donald Elmere, as unobserved from his 

perch, 
On a spur up the mountain he paused in his 

search 
For wild game. Gazing down on the valley below, 
A hurried descent, and he is bending low. 
Before nature's pure child, who unaccustomed has 

been 
To listen to flattery from worldly men. 
Flushed bright at his compliments, guileless of 

art. 
Believing he spoke from the depths of his heart. 
'Twas the most natural thing in this world; that 

the heart 



40 Lurallne, 

Of the child, Luraline, should be caught by the 

art 
Of this man of the world; and the only man 
That ever she'd known outside of the clan 
Of the Browns and her father. And Eichard was 

more 
Of a brother to her, as I've hinted before, 
Than ever was lover ; and never could fill 
That place in her life and her heart; nor could 
will, or a firm resolve, by the innocent 
child. 
Subdue her mad love, nor stifle the wild 
Beating throbs of her heart when his step sound- 
ing near, 
Though she saw not his face, whispered Donald 
Elmere. 

The bright Autumn passed and the winter came 

down. 
O'er the desolate earth, from the mountain that 

frowned — 
Next the dull leaden sky ; to the valley below 
Wrapped in soft fleecy blankets of beautiful snow. 
The hemlocks complained, and the dark mountain 

pine 
Tossed high their long arms on the whistling 

wind. 



The yule-tide approaches ; the house of Revere 

Are busy, preparing the feast of the year; 

The fireplace o'erhung with green fragrant pine; 

The cedar and hemlock and holly entwine 

Over the broad windows; and bright laurel leaves 



Luraline. 41 

In Sie deft hands of Lnra make bright wax-like 

wreaths, 
To be hung everywhere in the spacious hall, 
Festooned o'er the entrance, and brown wooden 

walls. 
And the spacious stairway, and lend to the cheer 
Of the birth of the Christ, in the home of Eevere. 
There Elmere had found her, after long thro' the 

snow 
He had tramped in vain search for the wild mistle- 
toe. 
Fruitless was his quest; returning, he found 
The room with greenery littered around. 
And Lura, surveying the work she had done. 
Looking, to his eyes, in the light of the sun. 
Throwing out his last rays o'er the evergreen 

hills, 
A picture sweet and saintly, which to rapture 

thrills 
The eyes of beholders. A quick step, she turns, 
All flushing, to meet him; a quick fire bums 
In his pulses, and swiftly dashing aside 
His scruples and conscience he is at her side. 
In a moment her hands are in his, and her eyes 
Are looking in his with sweet loving surprise. 
Then his arms are around her in tender embrace. 
While his lips shower kisses on her sweet upturned 

face. 

Let us leave them to-night in the soft twilight 

gloom, 
Lighted up by the logs, at the end of the room. 
Blazing bright in the fireplace lofty and wide. 
On the settle, close sitting, the two side by side. 



42 Luraline. 

The old tale lie's telling ; so old, yet so dear ; 
He has plighted his faith to sweet Lura Eevere. 

Ah, Lura, sweet maiden, as free as the air, 

'Tis not best to repose perfect love and trust 

there, 
In that man of the world, this soldier of chance, 
ISTor center your heart on your youthful romance. 
There is none near to warn you, nor tell you, that 

thou. 
The place of another, are usurping now. 
And Donald Elmere, where your fine honor, now? 
Do you, for a moment believe that your vow 
To love and to cherish, and ever console, 
Can be kept, and the sin and the stain on your soul 
In betraying the innocent heart of this child; 
Will this and your conscience ever be reconciled ? 

'Twas a grand Christmas day; the bright heavens 
are clear. 

The snow, bright and crisp, 'neath the foot of El- 
mere 

He had tramped for long hours over the mountain- 
side. 

Trying long, trying hard, his rash act to coincide 

With the merest excuse or shadow of right. 

But he could not ; and twist it or turn as he might. 

Grim conscience, with finger, long, steady, and 
stern, 

The leaves of life's history backward would turn. 

The only excuse he could possibly make was, I 
love her. 

To conscience he said, for her sake I will never re- 
open the door of the past; 



Luraline. 4.3 

My life in the future with this people I'll cast, 
Far away from old England, and that woman, my 

wife; 
They never could learn of my past wretched life. 
Descending the trail his eyes full of gloom, 
To meet him came Lura in girlhood's fresh bloom. 
Her dark cloak enveloped her form like a shroud. 
Her face peeping out, like the sun from the cloud. 
Chased shadows away, and Donald Elmere 
Saw conscience and scruple and doubt disappear. 



It is Spring, joyful Spring, and the robin had come 
From his southern exile to his summer home. 
The earth full of beauteous blossoms of Spring, 
Of beauty and love and of happiness sing. 
The light heart of Lura kept time to the strain. 
To-morrow, her bridal; she cannot refrain 
A song, sweet and low, as she flits through the 

room. 
Her heart full of gladness; but to Eichard: the 

gloom 
In his heart, and the gloom in his eyes 
Tells life's sweetest hope at his feet ruined lies. 
Sweet Lura, so gladsome, how little you guess 
The heart-breaking sorrow, and bitter distress, 
Of this sturdy true heart, that had for his world 
Yourself, now in anguish, sweet hope has been 

hurled : 
Down, down, the black abyss of endless despair. 
Disappointment and bitterness are dwelling where 
Were once hope and love. But the generous heart 
Of brave Eichard Brown conceals the sharp smart. 



44 Lurallne. 

When the afternoon sun through the broad kitchen 

door. 
Marked the place on the floor of the hour of four. 
The horn of a hunter rang out loud and clear 
Calling forth o'er the hills to the house of Eevere. 
Then forth from the forest a party of four 
Travel stained, their steeds jaded, dismount at the 

door. 
Eevere hastened to greet them, and bade thenf to 

rest. 
Refresh themselves and their horses, welcomed 

them to the best 
That his house afforded. They thaaikfuUy ac- 
cepted. 
Their jaded steeds cared for, nor were they neg- 
lected, 
Soon fed and refreshed, they lay smoking at ease. 
Full length on the sward in the shade of the trees. 



'Twas night, and Lura, unable to sleep, 
• From her bed to the garden did silently creep. 
Through her heart and her mind seemed to vibrate 

and thrill 
A strange sad foreboding of oncoming ill. 
A hedge of bright laurel their bright leaves up- 
flung 
In the ethereal moonlight. Their fair blossoms 

hung — 
In sumptuous clusters appearing pure white — 
On a dark glossy mound. In that silvery light 
It appeared to the eyes of the girl, pacing slow 
By the hedge, fleecy balls of white beautiful snow. 



Luraline. 45 

An hour has passed — slowly up, slowly down, 
Through the dark, sleeping night, undisturbed by 

the sound 
Of footfalls, scarce heavy as the falling dew. 
Until wearied at length in an arbor withdrew; 
Then, through the hushed night, heavy footfalls 

draw near. 
'Tis Edward, the stranger, and Donald Elmere. 



They paused on their way to the house by the side 
Of the same thick leaved laurel, whose dark shad- 
ows hide 
The girFs shrinking form. Their tones, distinct, 

low, 
Smote her ears, like a bell ringing out soft and low. 
The knell of her heart's hopes, the death of her 

youth. 
For the stranger's low tones of the past spoke the 
truth. 



In plain words he spoke of the past honest life ; 
Spoke of boyhood's bright days, of the unhappy 

wife. 
Lectured, scolded and pleaded, appealed to the 

past; 
And this mad happiness, if attained, could it last? 
Elmere only answered: It now is too late. 
The matter is sealed, the result is with Fate. 
Edward: You refuse to retract then? 
Elmere : It is even so. But will you expose me ? 
Edward : Expose you ? Why, no. You risk much, 

you gain little. 



46 Luralinc. 

Elmere: I gain a sweet wife. 

Edward: A wife? No, you have one, but ruin 

the life of 

Elmere : A wild, rare, sweet flower. 

Edward: You say: be it so. Be content then to 

leave her. 
Elmere : But to that I say no. 
Listen, Ed, every cup from my earliest youth 
I'd have quaffed in pleasure, desire or in truth. 
Has been dashed from my hand. Of the marah of 

life 
I've had more than my fill, and that woman, my 

wife; 
ril never endure; this green earth is too wide. 
But here, far from her, with sweet Lura my bride, 
ril live a new life, and no shadow of shame 
If I can prevent it shall fall on her name. 

They passed on to the house. Sitting stunned un- 
til dawn 
Broke gray o'er the hills, looking old, worn and 

wan. 
Poor Lura arose, from the bench, moving slow, 
Her heart cold within her ; the color and glow 
Of her hope blotted out, the black gloomy pall 
Of death's mantle, o'er love's prostrate form seemed 

to fall. 
She turned toward the house, but paused, sighing, 

"No ! no ! 
He is sleeping in there; where, oh, where can I 
go?" 

She passed through the dawn, down the long 

avenue 
Of the thick growing laurel, all bright in the dew. 



Lurallne 47 

Beached the trail that wound round the steep 

mountain-side. 
Fearing naught, caring naught, save her anguish 

to hide. 
Stealthy footsteps pursue her; she stops at the 

sound. 
Dusky forms gather round her; 
The maiden is bound. 

Then away to the north, ere the light of the day 
Far away from her home they have borne her 

away. 
Ever onward; up river, over valley and hills. 
Over bramble and briar, swollen streams, purling 

rills. 
To the lake called Chautauqua, all ripples and 

smiles, 
Where beautiful nature your sorrow beguiles. 
Sleeping maiden, so lovely, with waters so cool, 
Fed by clear gushing springs. That man's a dull 

fool, 
Who, beholding thy waters reflecting the sky. 
Who, over thy surface his canoe can ply. 
And not learn to love thee, and cherish a place 
In his heart for thy rippling changeable face, 
Nestling twixt the hills that in childhood I trod. 
Thy bright changing face, the handwork of God 
In thee is complete. And that sordid soul 
Who sees naught in nature to charm and control 
The emotions of man. In thy primeval bloom, 
'Ere the axe of the white man had dug a deep 

tomb 
For thy magnificent forest is enraptured and 

thrilled, 



48 Lurallne. 

By thy cup that Dame Nature hath sumptuously 

filled. 

'Tis here we will leave the white captive to dwell, 

With the red men, who soon learned to love her 
right well. 

Adopted straightway, by the chief grim and old. 

Their princess was she, and many a bold 

Warrior lay down the trophies he'd won in the 
chase, 

Content with a smile, from the sweetly sad face. 

Thus she lived ten long years, and learned to love 
well 

The bronzed children of nature. Her hut in a 
dell 

Nestled close 'neath the hills, where the bright wa- 
ters play. 

Without further event passed youth's golden day. 

We'll return to the house of Eobert Eevere, 
Who had slept through the night without tremor 

or fear. 
Secure in his trust in God's goodness content 
In to-morrow's nuptials, the night calmly spent, 
In sweet, refreshing slumber ; deep, profound, until 

day 
On her broad, golden pinions swept darkness away. 
And the bright golden sunlight had flooded his 

bed; 
He arose, by the spirit of thankfulness led. 
To his accustomed devotions ; and out through the 

door 
He reverently stepped, paused a moment or more; 
His face to the mountain, in worship intent, 
His heart raised to God^ he in thankfulness bent 



Luraline. 49 

Down his knee, and prayed long, that sweet 

mom, bright and clear. 
That no cloud mar the life of his child and Bl- 

mere. 

The whole earth is glad with the carols of Spring. 
The zephyrs are warm, and the birds gaily sing. 
He felt the deep pulsing of nature, and thrilled, 
As its deep silent music his strong nature filled. 
Deep peace filled his soul, and he musingly went; 
His steps up the trail, half unconsciously bent. 
Where Lura, but lately, in mad, dark despair 
Had fled from her home; reached the same recess 

where 
The red men had bound her, and borne her away, 
Nor dreamed she had left him forever that day. 

'Twas Eichard first knew she was gone, and his 

heart 
Stood still as he searched for her, silently, apart. 
For she was still dear. In each secluded nook. 
Each place where she was wont to stray, himself 

took. 
None knew as well as he the retreat 'neath the 

hill. 
Dark shadowed and cool, where a cool, sparkling 

rill 
Sang down o'er the rocks in its bright laughing 

glee. 
Her secluded retreat by the giant pine tree, 
And the cave up the mountain, at whose yawning 

door 
She had loved lone to sit, on the smooth earthen 

floor, 



50 Luralinc. 

Keen woodsman by nature, and training, he went 
Swiftly up the trail, on the ground, his eyes bent. 
Each disturbed twig, or leaf, to his eyes a book 

clear. 
He discerned, both the footsteps of Lura Eevere 
And her father — And these! his heart leaped with 

dismay, 
A score, perhaps more, moccasined, filled the way. 
Hot, feverish his eyes, for some clue cast around; 
A glittering object on the brown leaves they 

found ; 
A quaint golden brooch, prized by Lura most dear, 
Affirmed his suspicion, and increased his fear. 
Brave, and strong, and commanding, was Eichard 

though young. 
Self-reliant and bold, quick of action and tongue. 
JSTo time now for mourning. In awful dismay 
He is back to the house, without thought of delay ; 
Eoused the inmates, and seizing his rifle was gone 
On the trail, like a hound, eager and alone. 
The feast of the wedding was untasted that day. 
The bride's robes, pure white, in their loveliness 

lay. 
The mother, heartbroken, aged many a year. 
Her face white and drawn, hot eyed, shed no tear. 
But waited in anguish alone that long day. 
Her heart dead within her, a leaden lump lay. 
No prayer could she say, and no tears could she 

shed; 
Cold fear clutched her heart, hope vanished and 

fled. 
Donald Elmere, the bridegroom, white under the 

bronze 



Lurallne. 5 1 

Of his once ruddy cheek, his eyes haggard and 

wan, 
Sought his bride near and far; called aloud her 

dear name. 
The echoes mocked back, but no answering Toice 

came 
From her who had gone far away from his side. 
She, he had fondly dreamed, would that day be his 

bride. 
He sought her all day, and throughout the long 

night ; 
Not glimmer could he catch of her garments of 

white. 
Over mountain and valley, dark ravines, steep in- 
cline. 
Calling loud, calling long, "Luraline ! Luraline !" 
On, on, ever on, weary, faint, his strength spent. 
His heart sad, rebellious ; railing fate as he went. 
And the mountains re-echoed, the sad, sobbing pine 
Took up the sad strain, Luraline ! Luraline ! 



Fruitless was the search, and Revere and, his guests 
One by one returned sadly from his fruitless quest. 
As the shadows of night gathered darkly around. 
All assembled but Eichard and Elmere. 
They had found no trace of the maiden. But Rich- 
ard is away ; 
Hot foot on the trail of the Senecas to-day. 



Over valleys and hills, mountain-side and deep 

wood. 
Poor Richard, perplexed and disconsolate, stood. 



52 Luraline. 

Where the waters of two mighty rivers unite 
To form the Ohio's swift current, whose flight 
Find the father of waters. Disheartened he stood ; 
All trace of the trail had been lost in the flood. 

The place where the red men's bark canoes were 

concealed 
He had found. They were gone, nor would the 

waters yield 
Their secret, if whether to the left or the right, 
Or downward, the current concealed the fact quite. 
Three separate waterways open at his feet. 
He must own to himself the defeat is complete. 
But he would not relinquish his purpose, and long 
He sought, up and down, almost hopelessly on 
He hunted for that; that was not to be given 
To him, and his heart but so lately riven. 
Because of her love for another, to-day 
Could he find her, would give her to Elmere for 
aye. 

Sadly, slowly, reluctantly, at last he returned 
To the house of Eevere that in deep sorrow yearned 
For some news of the maiden, whose fate none 

could tell. 
Whether living or dead, if she ill fared or well. 
She had gone, and the light of the home was deep 

gloom. 
Sad sorrow abode. Hope was borne to the tomb. 

On the broad wings of time the years swift have 

fled. 
Eevere and his wife sleep the sleep of the dead. 



Luraline. 53 

Old age swiftly came, hope and happiness gone 
From this temple of clay their spirits have flown. 
Peace and rest, side by side, souls gentle and true. 
If heaven there be it were given to yon. 

The old house is vacant; the wild birds still sing, 
And earth is made glad by the blossoms of Spring. 
But never's returned the Indian's White Star, 
Beloved of the red men in her wigwam afar 
To the northward she mourns alone to this day. 
That from lover and parents she is fated to stay. 
The old house is vacant. In the clutch of Mars 
The country's convulsed with the thunder of wars. 
The Browns to the front hastened without delay. 
The arm of oppression to fling ofl for aye. 
The yoke of old England, their mother o'er the sea, 
. Is broken and the colonists declare they are free. 
They are free ! Yes, to fight and to purchase with 

life 
Through long weary years of hell's carnage and 

strife. 
The right of self-government. Eagged and cold. 
Half starved, gaunt, determined they supremacy 

hold 
Against the imperial array, and never Avill yield. 
They may die, but will never surrender the field. 

******* 

Encamped between mountains, tall, frowning, se- 
vere, 

Sheltered from rude winds, the colonists here 

Eest after hard marching through the wilderness 
dense, 

To join their comrades to eastward, from whence 



54 Lurallne. 

Their united strength they will hurl against the 

foe. 
The strength of the hunter and farmer, whose 

blow 
Hard and fierce, forth the legions of hirelings 

will thrust 
Their proud leaders humbled, their banners in 

dust. 

The Colonel is pacing the log cabin floor. 
When, upon its crude hinges, noisily, swings the 

door. 
A soldier salutes, saying, "Sir, there's without 
An Indian maiden, but whom I've no doubt 
A white captive is ; no Indian she. 
She wishes to see you, and commissioned me 
To in person deliver her message, and say 
That until she sees you she will not go away.'' 

Col. : What's her name ? 

Soldier: 'Tis the White Star. 

Col. : Not much in a name. But whence comes 

she ? 
Soldier: To all questions she answer the same. 
She wishes to see you, and will see you and none 

other. 
Though sorry am I to make all this bother. 
Col. : Bring her hither, then, sentry, but you linger 

near; 
In case I should call be sure that you hear. 
The White Star? I never have heard it before. 
Perhaps some white maiden to captivity bore 
By infernal red devils, seeks deliverance through 

me. 
If so, my poor maiden, you are even now free. 



Luraline. 55 

For the sake of sweet Lura whose fate ne'er was 

learned, 
Eichard Brown, never deaf ear to duty has turned. 

"Here's the maid, sir." The sentry salutes and is 

gone. 
In the doorway a woman is standing alone, 
A tall slender figure, supple, full of grace; 
Two deep, tender eyes, lighted up a sweet face, 
A face fair, though browned by the warm summer 

sun. 
Her bright, braided hair, like pure gold thaf s 

been spun 
To weave for some queen cloth of gold, falling low. 
On her picturesque garb, she advanced shy and 

slow 
Toward the man who stood gazing, astonished and 

bound 
By the spell of her beauty. He starts at the sound 
Of her voice; mellow, tender, and silvery sweet. 
Like soft waters falling in some sylvan retreat. 
Her words low, distinct, he does not understand. 
His senses are reeling, he takes the brown hand 
In his own, and looks long, searchingly in her eyes. 
And she looking up in unfeigned surprise. 
Flushed deep with emotion; this man bearded, 

browned. 
Where before had she known him, and his voice, 

at its sound. 
Like some faraway note from her childhood so 

dear. 
Deep-toned, manly, courteous, now fell on her ear. 



56 Luraline. 

She rallied her forces, her errand she told. 
Offered him the services of her braves, strong and 

bold. 
For the cause of bright freedom she told him her 

braves 
Would fight faithfully, until over the waves 
Departed the last of oppressors, never again 
To rule where blessed freedom forever must reign. 

While she had been speaking the bronzed Colonel 

Brown 
Had watched her rapt face; on his own a deep 

frown 
Of deep thought, scanning closely over ten long 

years' space. 
And seeking a likeness in this woman's face 
Of the sweet girlish beauty of Lura Severe. 
Could it be in this garb that at last she was here ? 
Yet it must be. The face, although healthful and 

fair. 
Serene in its strength, told that mad black despair 
Had swept over her soul, as the storm sweeps the 

plain ; 
Eooting up the fair verdure, but as nature again 
Throws out her green tendrils and covers her 

wound. 
So time, soft and tender, the broken heart bound. 
With the sweet balm of life, and those eyes deep 

and clear 
Told of sorrow overcome by sweet Lura Eevere. 

"Your name, gentle maiden ?' "The White Star," 

"The White Star? You, an Indian?" She 
drooped her bright head 



Luralinc. 57 

And sighed : "No ; years ago they bore me away 
From my mountain home. I'm a princess to-day, 
With every wish gratified, save one, to return 
To my sweet saintly mother, whose fond heart 

must yearn 
For her daughter, long-lost. Tell me, did you ever 

hear 
Of a man, noble, devout, named Eobert Eevere ?" 

She raised her clear eyes to his face, a bright tear 

Gemmed their deep lustrous depths; 

And he, torn with fear 

Lest she know, or not know him, felt all self-com- 
mand 

Slip from him, and mutely he raised her brown 
hand 

To his lips, in a soft, mute and tender caress. 

His heart vainly hoping that she at least guess 

That 'twas Eichard her playmate, that at last she 
had found. 

Searched long her sweet face, with look deep, pro- 
found. 

And Lura! at last, poor dear, Lura Eevere! 

Then "Eichard !" she answered, in tones glad and 
clear. 

So she dwelt in the camp of the soldiers. Her 
tribe 

Eeinforced Brown's command; her maidens abide 

With their princess, and straightway most dili- 
gently lent 

Cheer and help to sick and the wounded; their 
tent 

In the center of all of the other tents stood. 

Devoted were they to the welfare and good 



58 Lurallne. 

Of the sick and the needy, and helped dry the 

tears 
Of she who was last of the race of Reveres. 

The battle is on in hell's carnage, and Mars 
Disports over the hills, through the day ; when the 

stars 
Slowly, timidly, look on the red field below, 
The wounded lay thick, where the long shadows 

grow. 
The carnage is stilled by night's hand; and the 

maids 
Through the darkness approach the red field, and 

aid 
Both alike friend and foe, and the silver moon 
Flooding earth with her light; to the wounded's a 

boon. 
By her light blood is stanched, and death-dimmed 

eyes closed; 
And distorted limbs decently reposed. 

The hours of labor are arduous and long. 
The moon to her rest on the mountain has gone. 
G-rey dawn, dim and wan, the dim herald of day. 
Is chasing the legions of darkness away. 
Luraline, her strength spent by the labors of night ; 
That had taxed both her strength and her heart, 

and the sight 
Of the dead and the dying, the life blood, the 

wounds 
Sick at heart of the carnage and the awful night 

sounds 
Of the battlefield, all to her new, she sank down 
To rest for a moment upon a green mound. 



Lurallne. 59 

Wanaeta, the f aitM ul, sits close by her side ; 

Her adopted sister, the betrothed bride 

Of the eager young chieftain; the bravest of the 

brave 
Of the bronzed men of nature, who themselves 

freely gave 
To the cause of bright liberty, little knowing that 

they 
For Bright Civilization were paving the way. 

The White Star's bright head on dark pulsing 
breast 

Of Wanaeta, the Indian, was wearily pressed. 

Hand clasped in hand they awaited the light 

Of the new day, both sad with the labors of night. 

A moan close beside them ; faint, tense, full of pain. 

Urged their tired limbs on to labor again. 

In the morning's dim light an officer lay; 

British uniformed, blood stained, his life ebbing 
away. 

The White Star's deft fingers stanched the gaping 
wound. 

From his face washed the blood, and the bleeding 
brow bound 

With her own snowy 'kerchief, and pitifully bent 

Over the rigid form, whose life seemed far spent. 

The closed eyelids flutter, open, and his eyes 

Meet hers, and the life blood his ghastly cheek 
dyes. 

"Lura !"_ faintly he calls ; "Lura !" and tries to rise. 

Then faints, while she holds him in raptured sur- 
prise. 



6o Luralinc. 

Long she helplessly sat, the dear head on her 

breast. 
Her arms close around him, her lips fondly 

pressed 
To the unconscious face of that man to her dear. 
And never more womanly was Lura Revere. 

I suppose if this tale on pure fiction was bent 
She had long ceased to love him; and steadfastly 

went 
On the high road of duty ; nor ever would deign 
Hot kisses and tears on that white face to rain. 
But a sweet human woman loves in spite of fate; 
Loves because she must love; ne'er in vain her 

heart's mate 
Calls for love from her tender and responsive soul. 
Though she has not the right, she responds with 

the whole 
Warm, sweet strength of her love, and sweet in- 
cense will pour 
On the altar of Love in her heart evermore. 
She may not, 'tis true, forsake duty and truth. 
She may not recant the illusions that youth. 
And convention, the world and society fling 
Around their subjects, but every true woman I 

bring 
Close under observance's scrutinizing eye. 
To my questioning ever has made one reply : 
That thiey love, and will love; be it wrong, be it 

right; 
The wife will close cling to the husband through 

night 
Of disgrace, and, when hellish despair 
Shall encompass his soul, the maiden in prayer 



Luraline. 6i 

Prays, "God, guard my lover!" and lores him 

through life, 
And in spinsterhood lives can she not be his wife. 

Thus we love whom 'tis given to our hearts to 

love. 
And this love by whom given but the Father above. 
Drink deep, soul of mine, at Love's fount ; for 'tis 

pure, 
The wellspring of life, and ever will endure. 
Drink deep of the waters the gods now provide, 
Pour out offering to love evermore; nor let pride. 
Or the world, or all hell, wrestle ever from your 

hand 
The key of true life; life most noble and grand. 
The world may look askance on love's holy creed ; 
They are blind, mercenary and deaf mutes indeed. 
But I wander; we'll return to the White Star, 

whose soul alone 
Hangs in doubt over the life of Elmere. He the 

one 
To her whole life most dear. Her maidens prepare 
In her tent the rude bed ; then carefully bear 
The unconscious warrior, and gently they lay 
His still form on her cot; then she sends them 

away, 
While alone she takes up her long fight for that 

life. 
To her prized above all, and for weeks the sharp 

strife 
Of the flesh against weakness and death hard was 

waged. 
Then reason returned to her throne; worn and 

aged 



62 Luraline. 

He awoke from long stupor, and qnestioningly 

gazed 
Around the dim tent; the soft creeping haze 
Of the fast falling twilight lurked close on the hill ; 
Each corner with shadows seemed softly to fill; 
And a woman sat quietly, dreamingly by, 
Her face sad and pale; from her lips a soft sigh 
Broke the stillness. He stirred, and quickly she 

turned, 
Met his questioning gaze, and the bright roses 

burned 
In her wan cheeks; an instajit she trembled and 

shrank 
From his gaze; then, recovering, she met it with 

frank. 
Wondrous clear, limpid eyes ; then spoke softly his 

name. 
And he called her his sweetheart again and again. 

Weak and helpless the hands he held out to his 

love ; 
Strong and firm were the ones that clasped his 

from above. 
The recording angel forgot on his scroll 
To inscribe this act, or record the whole 
Burning, passionate love, that from heart to heart 
Leaped unbounded and free, long repressed; all 

the art 
And fetters, convention's form, were swept away. 
Their lips met ; their souls reunited for aye. 

Joy never has killed, you may prate as you may. 
The soldier grew stronger with each succeeding day. 



Luraline. 63 

And liis niTrse blithely went on her mission of love, 
Eelieving the suffering ; a bright angel proved 
To both friend and foe. Then Eichard one day 
Bought Elmere a parole, and would send him 

away. 
Then mute were the lips of the lover and loved ; 
Slow and quiet her step as she dutifully moved, 
A spirit of mercy, relieving the pain 
Of the wounded, and giving sweet pity, as rain 
Falls soft on the parched earth, to moisten and 

cheer. 
So pitifully, tenderly, served Lura Eevere. 
The last night has come, and the prisoner must go. 
By his tent the lovers paced long to and fro, 
Eeviewing the past. Of the future this day 
He pleads that she leave the rough camp, and 

away 
On the morrow with him to some peaceful retreat ; 
Leave for aye the red men ; and forever in sweet 
Peace and happiness they, far from carnage and 

strife. 
Ever live; and he pleads: "Be my wife, be my 

wife." 
The moon softly looks through the tall maple trees ; 
O'er the tall, lissome form of sweet Lura the breeze 
Sings softly of love and of lovers ; the night. 
Star-gemmed in its splendor, is wondrously bright ; 
The night birds^ sad song thrilling out low and 

slow 
Fell soft on her senses, and bade her to know 
Life's lesson, recalling the long-drawn despair 
Of the dead wasted years of the past, filled with 

care: 



64 Luraline. 

And desire for the present was born, sweet and 

bright. 
Close;, close, heart to heart, lip to lip, this bright 

night ; 
They feel all, and thrill with the fulness of life. 
Soul to soul, before God, they are husband and 

wife* 



In the years long gone by prehistoric man 

Ate the apple of knowledge, and through his brain 

ran 
Understanding of good, and of evil. Then God, 
In his anger from Eden to the unbroken sod 
Of earth, drove him forth for fear that also 
He taste of Life's fruit, and should evermore know 
Life eternal ; on earth never more to die. 
Himself be a God, and never more cry 
To the Almighty for strength and protection, and 

bend 
A supplicant knee down in worship, nor lend 
His tongue to God's praises. Thus ever he went 
Groping for life, and for light, until spent; 
Close to life's fruitful tree; to fearfully lie. 
Nor know for what sin, or what crime we must die. 
Know you how the children of Israel went. 
Forty years in the wilderness, weary and spent. 
Forty years Unbelief stalked forth through their 

camp. 
And they groveled in fear at his majestic tramp. 
And they died cursed of God, died in groveling 

shame. 
Think you ; had they dared, that their fate was the 

same. 



Luraline. 65 

And Moses, from Nebo, looked longingly on 

The land to him promised by his God, but never 

won. 
And he died, and was buried in alien soil ; 
All uncrowned by his labor, unrewarded his toil. 

Life's lessons are hard, and but few dare to prove 
That the law, made by time and tradition, not love. 
Is all wrong ; and the secret of love and of life 
Is the God-man made free from the rankling strife. 
Of form and convention, the creed of the world ; 
The church and the state. He whose shackles are 

hurled 
In the face of all these must know life's lesson well ; 
Or they for his presumption will fling him to hell. 
And hell : what is hell, but the fiery brand 
Of the man ostracized, against whom every hand 
Is raised smitingly ? Deals he back blow for blow. 
He has hope yet to win, and full pardon to know. 
But if ever he fear, then let him beware. 
For endless is hell to the soul in despair. 

The world as a lover when wooed turns away, 
But if wooing, its object flits swiftly away. 
It pursues, and desire is rekindled and burns 
White hot in its passion. So thus he who spurns 
The world e'er is sought by the world. You must 

spurn 
The world, and the world will woo you in its turn. 

The morning is flushing the blue of the skies ; 
The camp is astir ; the deep, soulful eyes 
Of Lura Eevere from her face white and fair 
Shine bright in the triumph over world and de- 
spair. 



66 Luralinc. 

Gone doubting, and fearing she joyously went 
On her errands of mercy, her heart calm and eon- 
tent; 
For love ruled her life, triumphant over all ; 
Black lust, infatuation, and passion back fall ; 
Before the pure love of this woman, whose life 
Has known but one love, and does she sacrifice 
One spark of her womanhood's exquisite grace. 
If she still dare to love her heart's mate in the face 
Of the world's condemnation, this passion so pure 
That over the years of despair could endure ; 
Will ne'er lead her wrong. She gives her whole 

life 
To the keeping of him who deserted the wife 
The world to him gave. Fares she ill, fares she 

well. 
Does she live, is she dead, he knows not; his fare- 
well 
To the life he abhorred is complete. Nevermore 
To his past will he willingly open the door. 
Call them weak, oh vain world; no stronger souls 

live 
Than the ones who dare all life's conventions; to 

give 
This free gift of love, when the world would cry 

shame. 
No risk is entailed to the love, when the name 
Of a man, honorable, just and loving and true. 
Is given, and wife is the crown given you 
By husband and friend, the church and the world, 
But the woman who tramples on these swift is 
hurled 



Luraline. 67 

From the heights of respect, and her womanhood's 

crown 
Is shattered ; the world passes by with a frown. 

Free love ? Yes, I say ! let love from this hour 
Hold and keep this sad race by his beauty and 

power. 
Black Lust die of shame; with your kindred be 

hurled 
From the human heart. May the hypocritical 

world 
That trafficks in souls of weak women and lends 
Her strength to their bondage, awake, forth send 
"Fruit meet for repentance," in sackcloth be clad. 
May her slaves be made free, and their broken 

hearts glad. 

Forth they fared from the camp; in his door 

Eichard Brown 
Beheld them depart; on his brow a stem frown. 
His romance was over forever that day; 
His love, dead and buried, Elmere's wife — come 

what may; 
Her memory he puts forth for aye from his life; 
His strong heart ne'er will covet for another man's 

wife. 
Sturdy, true Englishman, thy honor's thy life. 
Thou art pleasant to know, in this tumultuous 

strife 
Of living. When shortly thy life's sun is set 
On the red field of freedom, hard eyes shall be wet 
With unaccustomed tears, as they tenderly lay 
Your cold form in earth's bosom. Sleep peacefully, 

aye. 



68 Lurallne. 

And they riding forth, the White Star's maidens 

brown, 
Eiding close to her side, the bright sun shining 

down 
On the red-coated escort that leads them away, 
Over hill and deep valley, through June's leafy 

way 
They ride, side by side, and forever and aye. 
They onward shall fare, over love's golden way. 

Far away in old England a woman, grim, old. 

Hard visaged, at last her life's failure told 

To the priest who attended her death bed that 

night. 
When the soul from its prison took at last its long 

flight; 
Peace came to her at last ; she died sure in the love 
Of the Christ, and the Virgin, and heaven above. 
Her life's sands are run; no tears will be shed; 
For loveless she had lived, and unmourned she is 

dead. 

Oh soul, weak, distorted, rest in peace from earth's 
strife. 

Misshapen, ungainly, who made thus thy life? 

Who made life so bitter, or soured its bright wine ? 

Lies the fault with thyself? I life's problems re- 
sign. 

We never can know; never understand 

Why ill favored some souls, while others so grand. 

'Tis bonnie old England, the vine-covered manse, 
Close down by the shore where bright waters dance, 



Luraline. 69 

In the bright golden light of the summer's warm 

sun. 
Caressiagiy, lovingly, the waves, one by one, 
In rippling procession break soft on the shore. 
The bright sand caressing, their sweet love tale 

pour 
At the feet of their Goddess, the green, stately hill, 
Sloping gently upward, from their wooing, until 
Her head is upreared to the beautiful sky. 
The love of her life ; I havp oft wondered why 
That the sea loves the shore, and the shore loves the 

blue; 
The sky loving both, never changes her hue. 
And can give unto neither a nuptial kiss, 
For in favoring one then the other would miss 
Her bright, gracious smile. Her unperturbed soul. 
Impartial to both, gives both, of the whole 
Wondrous blessings of light, and the warmth of 

her sun. 
And her star-jeweled night. So constantly on 
Through the ages that come and the ages that go 
She lovingly bends o'er the whole earth below. 



Never bloomed there such roses as in this garden 

found ; 
Never walks were so smooth, ne'er so well kept 

were grounds; 
Never green lawns so velvety, or fountains so clear; 
Never so sweet a mistress as Lura Elmere; 
No figure so lissome in its exquisite grace; 
No eyes e'er so blue, nor so pure a face; 
Ne'er so happy a man as her husband was found; 
No lovelier babes in the whole country round. 



7© Luraline. 

Love, and Peace, and Contentment, abode evermore. 

In the beautiful, stately old mansion, whose door 

Ever opened to shelter, to help, and to bless 

Those by life defeated, who walked lone with Dis- 
tress. 

Honored wife, happy children, true husband we see. 

Life's wine, sweet and full, from all bitterness free. 

Heaven on earth; earth a heaven, long years did 
she live. 

Ever blessing and blessed, of life's fulness you 
give. 

Fare thee well, faithful lovers, and may never a 
tear 

Dim the lovely eyes of My Lady Elmere. 



The Storm. 7 1 



THE STOEM. 

The thunders rolled across the deep. 

And shook the ship from bow to keel, 
The storm king woke, in mighty wrath. 

Determined we his power should feel. 
With close-reefed sail we sped along, 

On through the inky, thunderous night, 
The moon o'erspread, the stars put out. 

And not one ray our way to light. 

A woman stays to watch the storm; 

Her face outlined against the night; 
A pur€, white face, so wondrous fair, 

And eyes, the darkest night to light; 
A woman past her girlhood's bloom. 

But sweeter, brighter, fairer far 
Than in the first flush of her youth. 

As the sun outshines the brightest star. 

A footfall comes, and dies away, 

Lost in the noises of the night ; 
Another comes, falters and stays. 

Lured by those eyes, so darkly bright. 
"It paradoxical seems," he says, 

"That after many weary years 
We meet again, my own Ijoree, 

After the space of sun and tears." 



72 The Storm. 

The deep eyes smile, serenely sweet. 

She softly, questioningly murmurs: "Yes. 
We meet — 'tis life to meet and part. 

The meeting's strange, I must confess. 
After the space of ten long years, 

By look or sign all but forgot, 
Again we meet upon a ship. 

The self-same ship, the self-same spot/* 

"And does it mean nothing to you?" 

His voice with passion, thrilling deep, 
"That thus we meet; as in 'Lang Syne,' 

I claim you mine to hold and keep. 
To-day the shore line was cast off ; 

Turning, I saw you on the deck ; 
And knew that every barrier's gone. 

That nothing now our love could check. 

"And you, my own, you love me still? 

Women but once love as you loved. 
Ah, tell me, dear, you are unchanged, 

Your dear heart steadfast and unmoved; 
And anxiously, but speak my own; 

This silence long is not like thee. 
My bonny bride, my manhood's love. 

Eight Joyful will our mating be." 

He forward leaned, and drew her head — 

That dusky head — down to his breast. 
And kissed her lips, and eyes, and mouth ; 

Murmured, "Believe me, it was best." 
She softly sighed, "I do not know, 

'Tis written, whate'er will must be. 
All things are ordered by our fate ; 

This must have been our destiny." 



The Storm. 73 

Then restless stirred, and turned her face 

Close to his own, with grave regard, 
As if to read his very soul. 

But when she spoke her voice was hard, 
"And are we kings and queens," she asked, 

"Upon the chess board of grim fate? 
And as he shuffles on the board 

Do we move on or pause and wait ? 

"I married was unto a man, 

A man honorable, just and true. 
My senior twenty years was he ; 

He loved me well, regarded you 
With Egypt's flesh pots, plentiful. 

And by the laws of common sense, 
I should have bowed my knee in thanks, 

Nor ever dreamed to journey hence. 

"But I loved you, — ^the saying's trite. 

To Sykes and Nancy 'twas the same. 
But love is bom, not made of man. 

And ne'er can man its passion tame; 
Not enough only to brave the flames 

Of that dread place, the Christian hell, 
But the comment of the great throng 

Of they, our peers, who round us dwell. 

"And you," half scornfully, "you flinched." 

"But for your sake," — ^the words came low. 
Her deep eyes lift; she answered not. 

The waves the ship toss to and fro. 
Then suddenly he turned about. 

"You would have gone with me," he cried, 
"You would have braved the gaping crowd. 

To spend 3i'our dear life by my side ?" 



74 The Storm. 

"Assuredly !" The voice is low; 

''You knew it then even as now. 
But you — you feared your little world ^ 

More than I the pangs of hell, I vow I 
For my sakC;, aye, perhaps, 'tis so. 

No doubt the same you quite believed, 
That day you left me long ago. 

And wreaked not of the heart that grieved.*' 

The waters lifted, rose, and fell. 

The ship plunged on through the night, 
The chill wind whipped the creaking sail. 

And thro' the darkness gleamed a light. 
The roar was music to her soul, 

The storm sovereign in every mood; 
It dashed the salt spray in her face. 

And from her tresses tore the hood. 

He raised the white hand to his lips. 

"My own Loree," he softly said, 
"The bygone years we can't recall, 

Nor cure the aching heart that bled, 
But let us hence a new life live. 

Be thankful, in the past no shame 
Touched thy white robes, and always you 

Were free from touch of guilt or shame. 

'^You were my star ; and my mad love, 

I feared the vehemence of its flame 
Would touch and sear thy garments white. 

I could not offer you my name. 
Forgive that love to thee revealed. 

We could not help ; now as my wife 
The old-time ruins we'll rebuild. 

And in that Eden spend our life. 



The Storm. 75 

"For by the gods I swear to you 

That morning, noon and evening there 
Has been no other form or face 

But thine, my own, surpassing fair. 
But for your sake I silence kept. 

And for your sake have wandered far 
O'er arid desert land sand swept. 

Your love alone my guiding star." 

The thunders crashed, the ship stood still. 

She threw her arms out to the storm; 
The lightning quivered bright ahead. 

The ship sprang forward in alarm; 
"Ah, could you love like that,'' she said. 

The wind whipped her thick cloak aside; 
The sovereign storm king knows no peers, 

And naught could keep him from his bride. 

And will you not believe it then 

The chill wind tossed her to his breast. 
She struggled, then the dusky head 

Upon his shoulders found her rest. 
"And I can love like that, and more; 

And you are mine, whate'er betide. 
In life, or death, or weal, or woe, 

You are my own, my bonny bride." 

The ship rolled on across the deep; 

The storm king whistled his alarms. 
The waves leaped high across the deck. 

But still imprisoned in his arms 
She watched the storm, with eyes content ; 

Those deep dark eyes, so clear and wide. 
Content tho' ere the break of dawn, 

Thro' death she should become his bride. 



76 Love's Triumph. 



LOVE'S TRIUMPH. 

It cannot be said Fate, for you mnst part. 
Our bodies part grim Fate, but what 
Can you do to the heart? 
Soul of my soul, your heart is mine, 
And mine, Dear Heart, is ever thine. 

It cannot be frowned Fate, and yet I do not sigh. 

For love is stronger far than Fate; 

Love will not die. 

If this were fancy it had long since fled, 

If this black lust, 'twere long since dead. 

The time has come, said Fate; we laugh to scorn 

Her words, my heart's own mate 

In Love's glad morn. 

Though we be farther than the poles apart. 

Love holds and keeps as one our hearts. 

Ah, Love, white pinioned messenger of Heaven; 

'Tis thus weak, faithless hearts 

Are rent and riven ; 

But constant hearts filled full of heaven's fire, 

Beneath thy pinions find the heart's desire. 



Love Letters. 77 



LOVE LETTEES. 

I kissed your letters, dear, then burned with fire. 
The same burned every sentence on my heart ; 
No profane eyes shall look upon them, 
No profane pen shall make of them a mart; 
For I love you too well and truly, sweetheart. 
To trust that Fate keep them unsullied white; 
I scatter their dear ashes to the breeze; 
Within my heart I hold my treasures bright. 

This, then, is Love ; true Love, not weak and mawk- 
ish, 

But strong to rise to heights above the rest ; 

And look from heights, above earth's toil and tur- 
moil. 

To rise on Love's broad pinions doubly blest; 

Were Gods of old more blessed, or old time Goddess, 

Heaven's gifts more plentifully received. 

Than you and I ? 

Sweetheart, indeed our life is worth the living; 

What wreck we of the years that's speeding by ? 

Love is eternal as the vaulted heavens; 
True Love must ever be unsullied, pure; 
If this is ours. Dear Heart, we will not worry 
Lest it should not the flight of time endure. 



78 tove Letters. 

I never felt so free, so close to Heaven ; 
Heaven on earth, and earth a paradise; 
As I have felt since, close yonr arms around me, 
Your lips on mine, I saw it in yonr eyes. 

Do dreams come true? Ah, sweetheart, can you 

doubt it ? 
All our short life we've dreamed of Love like this ; 
Now, sleeping or awake, we know the rapture 
Of mutual love — twin souls, united bliss ; 
The days speed by with life, and love, and laughter, 
For naught can take thy precious love from me. 
Ah, sweetheart, Fate cannot hinder us from loving, 
Nor to our hearts' door find the hidden key. 



A Rhapsody, 79 



!A EHAPSODY. 

Adam and Eve God made, and having made, 
He said: "^Tis good!" and gave them gifts 
That he thought hest ; of fruits and trees, 
A pleasant place wherein to dwell; 
Nor gave them garments for their nakedness ; 
And they were naked and were not ashamed. 

With the first sin came clothes ; and with more sin 
more clothing, more, 

Until at last we scorch and burn. 

Weighed down by clothes, heavy and cumberous. 

Until this our fate never to be free 

From clothes through life. This is sin's punish- 
ment. 

But why should we be chastened for the sin 
Of Adam and the long, long line. 
Of all our predecessors? The whole crowd 
Have sinned their sins and gone their ways. 
Each sin more clothes, more clothes more sin. 
How much of clothing must the next race bear? 
When I am laid to rest, ah, let the clothes 
Be scant and light. I'll have no need of them. 
Don't case my poor and ever-shackled feet 
In shoes stiff soled, but leave them naked, free ; 
Nor corsets tight, no cumberous skirts that weigh 
Upon my tired limbs like weight of lead ; 
Nor collar high, tight hooked with choking band; 
Nor with hard hair pins torture my poor head. 
Pull off my rings and leave my fingers free, 
And let my shroud but lightly cover me. 



8o The Dawn. 



THE DAWIT. 

Behold ! the darkness shudders as the light 

Of fast approaching day gleams in the skies, 
And dawn approaches, cold, and clammy browed, 

Before whose face the hosts of darkness flies. 
Chill is her garments, wet with damp and dew ; 

Wan are her eyes, deep set, of sombre gray ; 
Sable ],ier garments, grim and drear her life; 

Yet is she e'er the forerunner of the day ; 
And morn, sweet, rosy, fair, and flushed and sweet. 

Without dear dawn never would be complete. 



Rhododendron. 8 1 



EHODODENDEOK 

There's a laurel swamp at home, 
■ In the pasture 'neath the hill. 
Where the rotting logs are lying, 

And the quicksand, deep and still; 
There the waxen, lovely leaves 

Of the rhododendron grow. 
And when June smiles bright and fair. 

Hosts of lovely blossoms blow. 

There's the tallest, highest bush 

In the wettest, deepest mire. 
Where the sweetest blossoms glow, 

And the bushes grow much higher. 
Dare you cross the treacherous bog? 

Sucking, floundering, up to knees. 
Clambering over sunken logs. 

And o'er dead, half burned trees. 

Here the sumptuous blossoms lift 

Their fair faces to the sun; 
Sweet and fair as apples blow. 

Turning gently, one by one, 
Fit to crown the queenliest bride I 

Fit to deck the lordliest bier I 
Fit for altar's sacrament, 

Ehododendron without peer! 



82 Rhododendron. 

Eiiododendron beautiful in the darS, dark 

swamp alone;, 
Where the jay and cat birds call, and 

The woodcock makes his home ; 
Where the pines are whispering low. 

And the quaking aspens tall, 
You are queen o'er all the wild. 

Sweetest sovereign over all. 

Hidden in the jungle wild, 

Far from lips to sing thy praise, 
Lift thy head to heaven's sweet kiss ; 

Breathing sweetness all thy days. 
And we love the beautiful, 

In the swamp the fairest one. 
Holding up thy lovely face 

To the kisses of the sun. 



Kismet. 83 



KISMET. 

When first I lifted up my eyes, beloved. 

And met your gaze, my quickened pulses ran 

Throbbing and pulsing with new life; 
The year was young and piping Pan 

Soft breathing music o'er the verdant earth ; 

Piped to our hearts of Love's sweet birth. 

But we were deaf, and dumb, and blind. 

For many long and weary years 
We walked apart with downcast look. 

And hearts bitter with unshed tears ; 
And knew not at our feet was Heaven ; 
Your heaven and mine — ^by the Gods given. 

At last the veil was rent, and soul to soul 
We naked stood, nor were ashamed, 

The God of all good gifts in earth or Heaven; 
Should he for giving this be blamed ? 

Or we, when catching Orpheus' sweet refrain. 
In sweet Elysium ever would remain. 



$4 The Death of Love. 



THE DEATH OF LOVE. 

Hush thy wild grief, for sweet love is dying I 
Under the lilies he's pillowed his head. 

Let thy tears fall, it will ease thy heart breaking, 
Fall on thy lovely, thy beautiful dead. 

Cover him over with beautiful flowers. 
Under the lilies he's pillowed his head. 

Let thy tears fall, it will ease thy heart breaking. 
Fall like the rain on thy beautiful dead. 

Close the sweet eyes, fold the hands on his bosom ; 

Kiss the sweet lips, let the last words be said ; 
Cover him over with sweet valley lilies, 

And leave him forever, thy beautiful dead. 

Shalt thou forget him tho' time shall pass o'er thee. 
And life's rugged pathway alone you musttread? 

Nay, memory's tears, falling like sweet benedic- 
tions, 
Will water the grave of thy beautiful dead. 

Cover him over with beautiful flowers. 

Under the lilies he's pillowed his head. 
Let thy tears fall, it will ease thy heart breaking, 

Fall like the rain on thy beautiful dead. 



The Miser. 85 



THE MISEE. 

And I, a miser, suddenly grown rich, 

Must needs recount again my lovely gold, 

And fondle every sovereign bright, 
And feel its shining surface cold, 

And tremble lest it melt away, 

And vanish e'er another day. 



86 Love's Song of Rest. 



LOVE'S SONG OF EEST. 

Sleep, dearest, sleep, -upon life's busy cares 

Close thy dear eyes, and for a while take rest; 

My arms shall hold thee close while thou art sleep- 
ing; 

Thy head shall find a pillow on my breast. 

Now may thy rest be sweet, nor dread tomorrow ; 

Tomorrow is unborn and hath no sorrow. 

Sleep, dearest, sleep, today's brief warfare's done, 

Eest thou in peace after a fight well won ; 

Dream of the future, paint it fair and bright; 

May love protect thee with pinions white. 

My soul shall walk with thine, when ways are 
steep. 

My arms shall fold thee close, while thou shalt 
sleep. 

Ah, Ijove, to be like this ; thus heart to heart. 
To* feel thy heart throb next my own ; to feel 
Thy breath against my cheek ; thy circling arms 
Even in sleep; the bliss is real; 
Heaven hath not all the joy, but paradise 
On earth is opened to our wondering eyes. 



!A Spring Poem. 87 



A SPBING- POEM. 

Tlie earth lies brooding in the warm spring sun, 
And winter's icy reign broken, and gone ; 
The shooting herbage 'neath the brown dead leaves, 
Unseen by us spring's fairy garments weave. 
The tender green appears on plain and hill. 
The warm sun frees from prison the glad rill ; 
All earth is glad, for winter's harsh domain 
Has given way to spring's sweet reign. 
Sweetheart of mine, the winter's past, and spring 
Is full of flowers, and glad birds calling. 
Let us arise and fling aside all care 
And from our hearts the gloom of winter tear. 
For spring is youth, and youth is life, and love. 
And all the charms, the Gods for mortals wove. 

The crocus blossoms on the dull green lawn 
Bravely proclaim the winter's passed and gone; 
The hyacinth puts forth her shooting leaves, 
Nor for inclement shower, or chill wind grieves; 
The lilies waken in their chilly bed, 
And rise to life proclaiming : Winter's dead. 
So hope puts forth her buds for blossoming; 
Love's sunshine, to our hearts bring spring. 

What's spring? but promise of the summer's bloom. 
Then autumn's fruitful, luminous harvest moon 
Looks down upon the fruitful, garnered fields. 
That sumptuous nature e'er to mankind yields ; 
Love's buds are fair, fragrant, e'er blossoming; 
What will the summer bloom and harvest bring? 



A Love Song. 



A LOVE SOKG. 

A love song ; a love song ; I sing, my own, to thee. 
A sweet song, a true song, of one so dear to me. 
Ah, listen, Earth, and listen. Heaven, 
That unto me my love hath given. 

Oh, sweet heart; oh, dear heart; my own, my 

heart's desire, 
I love you, adore you; to love thee I aspire; 
For you are all the world to me ; 
I'll hold you fast, yet make you free. 

FU bind thee, and hold thee, by the cords of my 

love; 
I'll free thee, nor keep thee, if yOu wouldst from 

me rove; 
For love begets the same, and thou. 
Sweet heart, I know you love me now. 



To You. 89 



TO YOU. 

Thou art my love, a man among a thousand men; 

Heart of my heart, so tender, brave and trne, 

I would indeed be dumb, dull clay 

Did not my life respond to you. 

Drink, now, Dear Heart, of love's full treasure ; 

I'll bring to thee, measure for measure. 

Long in the desert's trackless waste we roamed, 
Where scorched the burning sand our bare, worn 

feet; 
Seeking for water, finding burning stones ; 
Now this oasis blossoms fair and sweet; 
Drink of its waters, crystal clear. Dear Heart; 
Drink, e'er grim Fate decrees that we should part. 

Then should the verdure wither, brown, and die ; 
The sun drink up the fountain's crystal spray ; 
Should we not quench our bitter thirst. 
And love in its sweet fount today. 
Today is ours, with all its joy or sorrow, 
No promise ours of the unborn tomorrow. 



90 [All Idyl. 



AN IDYL. 

Let us build us a garden of Eden, 

Away from the fret and care 
Of the throbbing, busy city. 

In a virgin forest rare. 
Where the pine and hemlock flourish, 

And the sturdy oak trees tall. 
Sing soft to the wooing zephyrs. 

And love broods over all. 

No serpent shall enter our Eden, 

To fill our hearts with dismay; 
Cupid will guard the portal 

Forever by night and day, 
And ever our guardian angels 

Will sacredly guard our love. 
And we — ^too busy with loving 

To long for the apple above. 

Ah, Adam ! you poor old sinner, 

Your love was not such as this ; 
To taste of a red-cheeked apple. 

With lips so dear to kiss. 
Ah, beautiful Eve ! you would never 

Given ear to the serpent's voice 
Had you searched the wide world over. 

And Adam had been your choice. 



The Brook. 9 1 



THE BEOOK. 

Over the pebbly, golden sand the little brook purls 

away. 
Clear as crystal, deep and cool, surging all the day, 
Down through the grassy meadows wide, 

Down past the towering hill, 
Laughing and dimpling, ne'er to abide. 

Hastening down to the mill. 
Leaving the feet of the juniper tree. 

Kissing the cowslip's fresh face. 
Courting the daisies and grasses in glee, 

Then onward with unceasing pace. 

Under the silvery birch by the hill. 

Making a pool limpid, deep. 
Under the branches silent and still. 

Softly and gently to creep ; 
Then off and away with a rollicking song. 

Where the sunbeams steal in through the trees, 
Smiling and dimpling all the day long. 

Kissed by the sun and the breeze. 

Sing, little brook, for the old world is sad ; 

Sing thy love-purling refrain, 
Keep thy depths pure and thy bright waters glad. 

As through the parched, thirsty plain 



92 The Brook. 

Under the beaclies and birches and pines. 

Kissing their feet as you go. 
Singing of life while their branches incline, 

To list to the sound they well know. 

Brave little brook, in thy mission of love^ 

Down through the meadows to go, 
Never desiring in strange paths to rove. 

But onward contented to flow, 
Watering the meadow, refreshing the plain. 

Through deep ravines, dark and still. 
Ever thy duty with joyous refrain. 

Hurrying, scurrying still. 



Three Roses. 93 



THREE ROSES. 

Three Roses grew in my garden ; 

Three Roses stately and rare ; 
And one was pink, and one was red. 

And one was white, and fair. 
Each lovely as the other was. 

And each without compare. 

Three lovers had these Roses, 
Three lovers of different mould ; 

And one was grave, and one was gay. 
And one was dark, and bold. 

And each one loved his Rose the best; 
Each one his love for her told. 

The fair. White Rose, on her queenly stem 
Drooped low, as her grave young knight 

Inhaled her exquisite perfume rare. 
And kissed her petals white. 

But he said: "I'll not pluck my lovely Rose 
Lest she die, e'er the coming night." 

Slowly he passed through the garden gate, — 

And the lovely, snowy head 
Drooped low in the hotty, blazing sun ; 

And her lovely petals shed. 
The wanton breezes scattered them around. 

At night they were brown and dead. 



94 Three Roses. 

That self-same day to proud Pink Eose, 
Came her lover, wanton and gay, 

And he pulled his Eose from her stately stem 
In an hour to cast away. 

Down in the dusty, and blistering street. 
She gaspingly dying lay. 

The Blood-red Eose, flushed deep with pride 

At the step of her lover bold. 
He said, "You are mine, most exquisite flower, 

This day to have and hold." 
And he wore her that day on his manly breast; 

All day his great love told. 

Upon his pulsing, manly breast, 

Content the Eed Eose lay. 
And her petals exhaled incense to their love. 

Through the length of that summer day. 
And when the shadows of even fell 

She blissfully dying lay. 

Does a Eose bloom in thy pathway, 

A lovely Eose and sweet. 
Pluck not its delicate, fragile form 

To smell, and cast in the street. 
Nor leave her to pine on her lonely stem 

But wear her, for time is fleet. 

Three Eoses grew in my garden. 

Three Eoses stately and rare. 
And one was red, and one was pink. 

And one was white, and fair. 
And each in her tender, perfect way. 

Was lovely beyond compare. 



Our Fate. 95 



OUE FATE. 

They are all deaf, and dumb. 

And blind, and lame ; 
Their little lives absurd; 

Their pleasures slain. 
They have not drunk the cup 

Of life; as we. 
They dare not say to Fate ; 

That they are free. 

I feel my whole soul 

Mightily expand 
Each time, I feel the pressure 

Of your hand. 
Convention's shackles fall 

From us, and we. 
Soul unto soulj and heart to heart 

Are free. 

My brain is clear, my heart 

Beats free, and fast. 
Fools prate that joy is madness; 

Will not last. 
Well, should it end to-night, 

This very hour, 
I feel my soul of Heaven^s 

Eeceived her dower. 



g6 Our Fate. 

Sweet Heart, Eegret is dead; 

Has lost her power 
To sting, and bite. Eemorse 

Has lost her dower. 
God is our maker, and will 

Not forsake 
The creatures, it has been 

His will to make. 

Why, then, should I not love you, dear. 

And why not you me? 
Can we then love just as we would ? 

Are we to choose then, free ? 
Why then do hearts like ours 

Go far astray. 
Though hard we strive to 

Turn another way? 

Who made us then, who, then. 

Is thus to blame. 
Who is to keep our parched hearts 

From love's bright flame ? 
Is it Fate, or God, or providence, 

Or we ourselves ? How given 
This love we strive against, this love 

Dearer than Heaven? 

We strangers were; we meet; we love; 

The bonds of Honor are not meet 
To clinch the heart, that leaps 

To heart, 
The lips that long for kisses sweet. 
Is this ourselves, or God, or Fate, 

Who is to blame that thus the state? 



Our Fate. 97 

Bear Heart, the God that fashioned us, 
Gave each this love, each a pure soul ; 

False prophets rose, and turned aside 
Many from Love's bright goal. 

God's plan was right, but man weighed down 
By man-made shackles, thus is bound. 



98 Do I Love You? 



DO I LOVE YOU? 

Yon ask rne. Dear Heart, Do I love you? 

Ah, can yon not read in my eyes 
That this sordid old earth becomes heaven 

When my head on your dear bosom lies ? 

Yon ask me, Dear Heart, do I love yon? 

And bid me to say one sweet word, 
And know not my sonl, by your presence. 

To its innermost depths has been stirred. 

Your kisses. Dear Heart, are my jewels; 

That I miser-like guard and hold. 
Your love is my most precious treasure ; 

God grant it may never grow cold. 

Yon ask do I love ; do you doubt it ? 

With confession. Dear Heart, such as this, 
I would walk through the hot fires of hades, 

I would barter my soul for your kiss. 



My Beloved. 99 



MY BELOVED. 

Where Chautauqua's bright waters are rippling and 
shimmering ; 

There have I laid you, beloved. 
Down by the lakeside, among the flag lilies. 

Sleeping, so sweetly, beloved. 

Eair as the morning, pure as the dewdrop ; 

Angels have claimed thee, beloved. 
But on that beautiful, eternal morning, 

I shall reclaim my beloved. 

Down by the lakeside, among the flag lilies. 

There first I met thee, beloved. 
Beauteously bright as the sunshiny morning, 

Eair as the lilies, beloved. 

Sweetly we loved, through the bright, golden sum- 
mer. 

Sweetly and truly, beloved. 
Hours were moments, and days but a shadow 

When thou wert near me, beloved. 

Lonely I walk by the rippling waters. 

Lonely, and sadly, beloved. 
Waiting the dawn of that eternal morning. 

When I shall greet my beloved. 



You Are Gone. lOO 



YOU ARE GONE. 

You are gone, and I am lonely; 

And the birds' songs seem less gay; 
And the fountain murmurs sadly 

Since, Dear Heart, you went away. 

And the flowers in our arbor, 
Drooping, sadly, on their stems. 
Listen, with down-drooping petals. 
For your step to come again. 

Up, and down, our pretty garden. 
In, and out, its paths we trod. 

By the softly splashing fountain ; 
Until love seemed born of God. 

In the gloaming close you held me. 
Sealed my lips with kisses sweet. 

Now you're gone, and I am lonely. 
Waiting here my love to greet. 

You are gone, and I am lonely, 
And the birds' songs seem less gay. 

And the fountain murmurs sadly, 
Since the day you went away. 



Life and Love. loi 



LIFE AND LOVE. 

I go the path marked out by Fate, 

That path. Dear Heart, my feet must tread ; 
I^'aught can I tell of weal or woe. 

But by my Destiny am led; 
I thank that Fate, that gave me thee. 
And to that Fate, I bow my knee. 

What ! should we meet but soon to part ? 

Life's joy is short. Life's journey long. 
Shall we not spend one sweet, brief day, 

In singing Love's enchanting song? 
Dear Heart, again I'd come to thee; 
Though thou tomorrow would'st be free. 

Regrets I've none; as for Remorse, 

I do not even know her name. 
But Joy, and Hope, and Happiness, 

Hold in my heart their glad domain, 
For thou hast been my own awhile; 
I fear neither world's wrath or smile. 

Why all the days that are to come, 
I'll backward look, and rest content; 

To know thy heart has beaten next my own, 
That for my kiss thy head hath bent. 

Dear Heart, the road is parched and dry. 

But this will cheer me till I die. 



102 Life and Love. 

Love seeketh not her own ; 'tis said, and well 
'Tis said. I love you, dear ; but am content 

That you should live the life the gods 
Have marked for you ; your days be spent 

In being what you wish to be: 

Yet, know your best responds to me. 

There's something better in this world 
Of selfish lust and love of gold, 

Than niggards, in their pride and pomp. 
Can e'er conceive, or e'er behold. 

Love, on white pinions, strong and free. 

Bears heart to heart and makes them free. 

Free from the world, and man-made laws. 

Traditions, ancient as is man; 

Laws that were founded ere the flood, 

Or, through the virgin wood piped Pan. 
Behold, the prison door outswing; 
Behold, sweet Love is triumphing. 

I love you, dear, both now and evermore. 

This is my Fate; a blessed fate, 'tis true. 
There is none other half so dear 

To my poor heart, as you, love, you. 
And, should we never meet again, 
I have sweet pleasure in my pain. 



The Parting of the Ways. 103 



THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 

THE LOVER. 

You are older than I, I admit, oh, sweet girl. 
But most lovely of women: when the brown-gold 

curl 
Next thy face turn to silver, and the lovely rose 
Of thy cheek turn to ashes: — Then here is repose 
On my breast, from the world. It is not thy youth 
I adore, but thy soul shining white in its truth ; 
And sweet purity : I am youthful, I know ; 
But, sweet lady, give me this hope, ere I go; 
Perhaps nevermore to return to thy side : 
Hope that I may yet call thee, sweetheart, and 

bride. 

SHE. 

Ah, youth, gallant youth ! I could lore you for aye. 
But should Autumn, though sumptuous, be wedded 

to May? 
Thy heart is untried, and thy youth's fervent fire — 
Autumn^s scarlet and gold fulfills thy desire. 
But Winter will come; and its cold, icy blast 
Would kill Summer's blossoms; for me love is 

past. 
Thy bride — take it kincll}- — I never can be. 
But youth, dearest youth, lift thy wet eyes, and 

see 



104 The Parting of the Ways. 

The glories of youth and of life, and may I 
Dwell near you forever, and then bye and bye 
When my locks silver white on my pale temples 

lie. 
May I dream that thy children around me will 

play. 



The Legend of Swansea Bay. 105 



THE LEGEND OF SWANSEA BAY. 

*'They came to our shores one evening. 

At the close of a bright spring day, 
Slipped gently into the harbor, 

And anchored within the bay. 
Their yacht was trim and tasty, 

A staunch little craft, and brave, 
Low lying, and graceful, with trim, white sails, 

A fitting bride of the waves. 

"Aboard was a man and woman. 

On their bridal trip, they said. 
Idling slowly along our shores. 

They anchored off Mumble's Head. 
The lady was tall and graceful, 

Winsome, blue-eyed, and fair; 
With a step like some old-time goddess. 

And a wealth of sun-kissed hair. 

"Sweet and good to look at, 

Fair as the dawn was she, 
Suggesting blue skies, bright sunshine. 

Sweet babbling brooks; and he 
Was tall, and dark, and manly. 

With lordly and masterful way; 
Clean built, broad-shouldered, with raven locks. 

Firm-lipped, and eyes of grey. 



io6 The Legend of Swansea Bay, 

"They loitered here through the summer. 

In idle and vagrant ways; 
Charmed, they said, by the beauty 

And seclusion of Swansea Bay. 
Exploring unfrequented places, 

Seeking secluded nooks; 
He — with his rifle or rod or dog. 

She — with her work or books. 

"Thus passed an ideal summer. 

Beautiful, blissful days; 
Days full of joy and sunshine; 

Idle and vagrant ways. 
Lovers they were more than ever; 

And the fishwives forgot to stare, 
At the lover-like attention. 

He showed her everywhere. 

** 'Twas a rare thing in those days, sir, 

For a stranger to stop long here. 
In this obscure fisher village. 

With none of their own kind near. 
But they seemed supremely happy. 

Oblivious to all beside 
Their love one for the other, 

Milord and his bonny bride. 

"We questioned the two grim servants 

They had brought along. 
Eliciting small information 

From sturdy old John Strong; 
Save he had served the family 

Of Stafford all his life. 
And nurse, and friend, and companion. 

To milady had been his wife. 



The Legend of Swansea Bay. 107 

"One day, 'twas the last of summer. 

The clouds were hanging low, 
A strong land wind was bloAving; 

The breakers capped with snow. 
A storm was plainly brewing, 

Like a leashed-hound, in the bay; 
The Sea Gull tugged her anchor. 

Impatient to be away. 

"The lovers — (for so we called them,) 

Had climbed to Mumble's Head 
To watch the waves, at the foot of the cliff. 

Dash in their rocky bed; 
When lo, from without the harbor. 

Where the dashing breakers foam. 
Booms out a signal of distress — 

A ship on the rocks is thrown. 

"A hurry call for the life-boat; 

'Tis launched ! And a dozen men 
Volunteer to man her. 

She's off to the wreck ! And then, 
Safe from the sinking deck, sir, 

And over the boiling wave. 
We brought every one of the crew to land, — 

Not one found a watery grave. 

"Thankful, indeed, were we, sir, 

For a safe return from the wave. 
Thankful, also, for the stranger, 

God had helped us to save. 
Tired, drenched, but rejoicing. 

We merrily trooped along 
To the inn, where cheer awaited, 

And drink, both hot and strong. 



io8 The Legend of Swansea Bay. 

"A man among the rescued, 

A dark, grim man, and brave. 
Kept aloof from the others, 

Dignified, proud, and grave. 
From the windows gazing seaward, 

Where the tossing Sea Gull lay. 
Asked what yatchmen were stopping 

In Swansea Bay. 

"Garrulous landlord Thomas, 

(Our genial host was he). 
Commenced the tale, Hwas his custom. 

Of the lovers' sojourn, and he 
Waxed exceedingly eloquent. 

As he dwelt on the lovely grace 
Of the fair, sweet bride of Stafford, 

Sojourning in this place, 

"He had not finished his story 

When, with garments wet with spray. 
The lady was in our midst, sir. 

And none knew what to say. ' 
Her hair by the rough wind loosened, 

Like a golden mantle thrown 
Over her fair young shoulders. 

While her face like a bright star shone. 

"Shone like the face of an angel 

In the innocence of youth; 
I could have staked my life 

At that moment on her purity and truth. 
*My husband !' she panted, but stopped right 
short, 

Her face took the hue of the dead. 



The Legend of Swansea Bay. 109 

Then the red blood leapt to her forehead, 
Dying her cheeks bright red. 

"Each man was on his feet, sir. 

Each steaming cup put down; 
As the stranger stepped before her. 

On his face an angry frown. 
Tour hiisband, madam !' he thundered ; 

'You ! you ! Lord Fa3rne !' she said. 
He grasped her roughly by the arm. 

But she shook him off and fled. 

"Fled like a startled lap-wing. 

Into the coming night; 
Payne was close behind her, 

Eunning with all his might. 
Just as she rounded the rocks there. 

Caught hold of her dress, but she 
Leaving that part in his hand, sir. 

Sped onward to the sea. 

^'Just then the full moon broke, sir. 

From her sombre, tent-like shroud. 
Looked down on the mad-tossed billows. 

From her space between the clouds. 
Eevealing to Ulric of Stafford, 

On the Sea Gull's tossing deck. 
His bride and her pursuer, 

The man we'd saved from the wreck. 

"Like a spirit white, of the sea foam. 

Her thin white dress wind blown; 
On the verge of that Hell of Water, 

She stood for a moment alone. 



no The Legend of Swansea Bay. 

Stood, as if cut from marble, 
With her fair, white, lovely face 

In the white moonlight uplifted, 
Exquisite in its grace. 

*Tor a moment she stood at bay, sir; 

I shall never forget the sight. 
Then, plunged in the boiling breakers. 

Was lost in the coming night. 
Ko soul could live in that sea, sir. 

Though a swimmer strong and brave; 
But again she appears and is outward borne 

On the crest of a giant wave, 

"Old Neptune must have felt kindly 

For those two who loved so well; 
Loved better than God or Heaven, 

Or fear of the torments of Hell; 
For she managed to keep afloat, sir, 

On that wave but a tiny speck, 
For it broke o'er the stern of the Sea Gull, 

And left her safe on the deck. 

"Left her crushed and helpless, 

A wet, limp heap, so pale, 
On that slippery, sea-washed deck, sir. 

Clinging like death to the rail; 
Then Stafford's arms were around her. 

The wet little head on his breast; 
Kissed the white lips back to life 

With tender and loving caress. 

" 'Twas really but a few moments ; 
To us it was hours, when 



The Legend of Swansea Bay. iii 

Lady Fayne^ alias Ernestine Stafford 

Had recovered herself again^ 
Stood by strong arms encircled. 

Looking toward the shore, 
"Where her outraged, deserted husband, 

Stamped and raved and swore. 

"Cursing the God of Heaven, 

Who ruled the angry wave; 
Cursing the luck that saved her 

From a hungry, watery grave; 
Cursed the man who had robbed him 

Of his lovely, girlish wife; 
Cursed them both together. 

Cursed them in death and life. 

"Our attention had been distracted 

By the raving of Lord Fayne ; 
When the moonbeam's silver splendor 

Broke over the sea again 
The Sea Gull's cable had parted. 

And out through the boiling bay. 
Like a captive bird liberated. 

She swiftly flew away. 

"Out through the white-capped breakers. 

Cleaving the white, salt spray. 
Out past the sturdy light-house. 

The Sea Gull won her way. 
And they in the full light standing 

On her slippery, sea-washed deck. 
His arms closed fast around her. 

Her arms about his neck. 



112 The Legend of Swansea Bay, 

"Among the heaps of wreckage 

Tossed up by the storm on the shore 
Next morning, we found them lying, 

Their brief love story o'er. 
Safe from sin and temptation; 

And the mad, wild night's alarms. 
Dead, dead on the beach together, 

Still clasped in each other's arms. 

"We buried them over yonder. 

By that huge grey mass of stones. 
There were no prayers, no singing, 

No organ's mournful tones. 
To sleep until the judgment; 

Thus in the way they died, 
With his arms forever around her. 

Close down by the moaning tide. 

"And it seemed to us fitting to lay them 

Down there by the moaning sea; 
Where the wild, sad waves make music, 

And ceaseless melody. 
Where through that happy summer 

Their wanton feet had trod. 
On his breast the bright head pillowed. 

Leaving their sin with God. 

"And now when the north wind whistles. 

And the breakers dash and roar, 
'Tis whispered that from the offing 

The Sea Gull flies once more. 
On her slippery deck the lover, 

While clinging to his side 
Is the fair, sweet wraith of the woman. 

Whom he had called his bride. 



The Legend of Swansea Bay. 113 

"Then as the reef is nearing, 

Farther recedes the shore, 
In the full, bright glare of the light-house. 

Where the hissing breakers roar, 
Close, close his arms enfold her ; 

And with his dying breath 
Eains kisses on lips and forehead. 

In defiance of Hell and Death/* 



114 A Song of Life. 



A SONG OF LIFE. 

Come, lute of mine, and tune yonr strings to song. 
Put Doubt away, and Sorrow over Wrong. 
Soul, chant for me a tender, soft refrain. 
And let thy joyful laughter ring again. 

For out of all the past of weal and woe. 
And after all the tares and wheat we sow. 
And after all the pleasure, and the pain. 
Comes tranquil Peace, as sweet as Heaven's rain. 

Soul of my Soul, Heart of my Heart of hearts. 
Thy dear head lift, for sunshine's brilliant darts 
Light up the curtain of the gloomy sky. 
And warmth and sunshine everywhere are nigh. 

Long sought I for thy precious face in vain ; 
Sweetest Eose, my heart was filled with pain. 
Now I have found thee blooming, fair, and sweet, 
The Kingdom that's within me is complete. 

Full many a beauteous Eose unfolds her bloom. 
Where none may walk to smell her sweet perfume. 
Too oft the sulking sun behind the clouds 
Withholds his rays, and earth in darkness shrouds. 

So if a Eose beside thy pathway blow. 
Smell not its fragrance, and pass lightly by. 
But gather Her, and wear Her on your breast, 
Tomorrow? — Your poor Eose but blooms to die. 



A Song of Life. 115 

Take all the pleasure this dull life affords, 
'Tis only niggards for the future hoards ; 
And to escape a punishment most hot. 
Are willing the best gifts to life shall rot. 

Dost think thy maker such a churlish elf? 
That He demand of worms much golden pelf. 
Or would He scourge the soul who blindly went 
Groping for light, until his strength was spent? 

We are but babes, and the great God of Love 
Who marks our course from his white throne above 
Will never damn a soul though far astray ; 
His are we, He the potter, we the clay. 

Born of a human mother none desire 

The hereditary vices of his sire, 

And burdened ever with ancestral taint, 

We, and not He, have right to make complaint. 

So, for the generations yet unborn 
Is growing the hard, harsh and pricking thorn, 
And they, dear heart, as even you and I, 
Will quaff life's cup, then pass away and die. 

Tomorrow ! To-morrow ! — what's the score ? 
Perhap's the umpire's out ! will sound before 
The rosy breaking of the coming day. 
And you, or I, Dear Heart, will pass away. 

God grant the parting interval be brief. 
As soon must fall the scarlet Autumn leaf. 
God grant us a swift respite to our pain, 
Then dust to dust we shall be one again. 



ii6 A Song of Life. 



to 



And if beyond there is a better land. 
Where all's ideal, I'm sure that the hand 
Of the Almighty's wrath will pass us by, 
Because 'twas He that fashioned you and I. 

What if the fanatic's Hell should surely bum; 
Think this would you and I from loving turn? 
For never Heaven's glories could compete 
With kisses, when our lips enraptured meet. 

Then let us live the life Fate has prepared, 
Nor let our feet by falsehood be ensnared. 
Nor hoard our gold, to spend when joy has fled, 
And happiness and sweet desire are dead. 

Then, love, sweet, wayward youngster, lead the 

way. 
And thou. Dear Heart, walk with me while the 

day 
Shines brightly on the white sands of our path, 
Nor fret thy soul, for fear of future wrath. 

I mind how once my heart, empty and dry. 
An unused jug, upon a shelf most high. 
Careless of time, or who came in or went. 
Fancied up there I'd ever be content. 

But into that dry, parched heart of mine 
Love poured his ruby, sumptuous glowing wine. 
And pulsing, trembling, quickened, wholly new, 
I knew that you were love and love was you. 

I live content, to run my destined race, 
Nor pray for mercy, or aspire to gracQ. 



A Song of Life. Ii^ 

Content to be what I was meant to be. 
Content that you. Dear Heart, were given me. 

Let priest and prophet, minister and saint. 
About degenerate mankind make complaint; 
But let me live, my life unshackled, free, — 
They're welcome to their future's blessed key. 

Oh, earth, so fair, so beautifully alluring. 
Oh, wine of life, so rich of nature's brewing, 
Oh, Love, sweet, rosy, Avinsome, witching elf. 
Give me these three, and keep the pelf. 

With fancy's ready loom at my command 
Behold, I wave my magic fairy wand; 
And all that's best in life is mine to keep. 
Why should I for the joys of heaven weep? 

When. I shall die, oh, let no tears be shed 
That life has from this worn-out portal fled; 
But lay me by the brookside, singing low, 
Where violets sweet, and valley lilies grow. 

And when you lightly pass the time of day, 
Above the mound that holds this earthly clay. 
Pluck not my flowers from their dainty stem, 
They are of me, and I am much of them. 



Ii8 Drifting. 



DRIFTING. 

Into the mists that lay over the lake and stream; 
We sailed away one day into a blissful dream, 
Only my love, and I, adrift on an ebbing tide, 
Fading from earth away; only our love did abide. 
Far from the haunts of men, into the dreamy 

maze; 
Into a cloud, sun-kissed, into the 'Tialeyon days"; 
Slowly and softly we drift, drift with the ebbing 

tide; 
Far from the fret and care, on a boundless ocean 

wide. 
Forever and ever, beloved, on thro' the blissful 

days; 
May we forever dream, dream of love's wondrous 

ways. 
Slowly and softly, for aye, down with the ebbing 

tide. 
Drifting from earth away, forever more to abide. 



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